


laying traps for troubadours

by asmenuke



Series: and it burns me [1]
Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M, don't take this too seriously and suspend your disbelief, period typical homophobia? i don't know her, the au you didn't need but you're getting anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-01-15 22:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmenuke/pseuds/asmenuke
Summary: The Tsar and his family live, and make it out of Yekaterinburg. But the Bolsheviks live too, and the tsar's power is greatly reduced. Tensions between the White Russians and Red Russians are simmering, and before they get to a boiling point, key leaders of both sides decide that something must be done to unite the two factions. A kicker is proposed at the end of several long policy and government changes: a Romanov daughter is set to marry a good and loyal son of the Bolshevik faction.That son is twenty-two year old Gleb Vaganov, a Party member who would really just like to read his copy of Pravda in peace, and that daughter is nineteen year old Anastasia Romanova, who wasn't planning on being married until all three older sisters walked down the aisle and still helps her brother Alexei with his pranks.In other words, it's as close to a romcom as you can get in 1920s Communist Russia.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Brooke and Kat for being enthused about the initial idea, shout out to Asya and Jacq for continuing to encourage it, and shout out to everyone else who has yelled at me to write this fic!
> 
> Much like the original Anastasia movie, this fic is very much more “history flavored” than “actual real history.” You may recognize some key players! But a lot of them will be left out, because seriously, fuck Stalin.

“In summary, the proclamation will read something along these lines,” Sergey Petrovich Vaganov read, “The Tsar and the nobles are out of touch with the common people. But enough have died in the Great War, and we need no further bloodshed against nobility nor serf.”

“Serf?” Irina Vaganova sighed, “What about simply ‘the proletariat?’”

“They’ll edit that,” Sergey snipped, “We, the Bolsheviks, offer compromise. A new government: the Tsar can remain, but we insist on a governmental body that isn’t simply the nobles. We wish to be democratically elected.”

Gleb, from behind his copy of _Pravda_ in the Vaganov’s hotel sitting room, whistled.

“I’d like to see the Tsar’s face when that comes to pass,” he muttered. Casting a sharp, almost nervous look at his son, Sergey continued.

“The royal wealth must continue to be redistributed to help those who need it most,” he carried on, taking a deep breath before adding, “And finally, an Imperial Princess is to be married to a loyal Bolshevik. White Russia wed to Red Russia.”

“What a job,” Gleb chuckled, turning the page of _Pravda_ , “Marrying an Imperial Princess would be difficult for a noble, let alone one of us proles. Imagine, becoming in charge of satisfying a girl who is used to an entire palace being at her beck and call!”

“Your father had enough of a time trying to keep me happy during the first days of our marriage, as I recall,” Irina joked, her knitting needles clacking softly. Gleb’s father was silent for long enough that he and his mother looked up.

“So?” Irina asked, “Who’s the lucky groom? I can’t imagine they haven’t decided yet.”

Sergey Vaganov bit his lip. Gleb folded down his newspaper.

“Oh no,” he said, folding up the copy of _Pravda_ with a calm he didn’t feel, “Oh no, no, _no_ …”

“Seryozha,” Irina gasped, “You _didn’t_.”

“Gleb is a fine, upstanding young man,” Sergey said faintly, “And one of the only loyal sons within age of Maria and Anastasia Romanova who didn’t die in the Great War. You know he’s one of the best, and only choices we have.”

“You’re going to marry me off? To an Imperial Princess?!” Gleb gaped, on his feet before he realized he had stood, “Has the Party lost its mind?”

There was a knock on the door, and after a moment, one of his father’s comrades stuck his head in.

“Congratulations on your engagement, Gleb Sergeyevich!” he laughed, “I’ll tell my daughter you’re off the market.”

Before Gleb could even comment, the door was shut. Irina Vaganova slowly retrieved the knitting she had dropped at some point in shock.

“Apparently,” she said dryly, “The Party never had a brain to begin with.”

Gleb remained standing, feeling more dazed confused than if a bomb had gone off in the room.

“ _Me?”_ He breathed, “Why me, though? Kostka and Kolya are both around my age, and they’re not dead.” 

Both Konstantin Levkov and Nikolai Ivolgin were perfectly decent Bolsheviks, in Gleb’s opinion, and reasonable men. Nikolai had gone off to war and came back unscathed, and Konstantin was studying somewhere like Paris or Berlin, if he remembered correctly.

“Konstantin is still in Vienna,” Sergey replied, locking the door of the Vaganov hotel room, “And Nikolai informed us all he’s not at all ready for any kind of marriage. Quite vehemently, too.”

“I see,” Gleb said grimly, “And what did our fearless leader say?”

“Vladimir Ilyich thinks it could be a good match, given that we lived across the street from them for so long,” Sergey said gently, “We wired the tsar. He approves of you. I know this must be a shock, Gleb’ka…”

“You can’t just give me up to marriage, to an _Imperial Princess_ no less, and still call me Gleb’ka,” Gleb muttered darkly. “I need some time to think. I need a _drink_. Did you tell Trotsky and Lenin that we all—we were _pals_ to the Royals? Did you tell them we were their _friends?_ Because the most I’ve seen of the girls was dresses through a window, and silhouettes on a roof.”

He shook his head angrily. 

“Gleb—“ Sergey tried, but Irina placed a hand on his arm.

“Take your black coat and go, Gleb,” his mother instructed, her voice chilly with anger that blessedly wasn't directed at him, “You won’t be recognized in the streets.”

Gleb disappeared into the suite, grabbing the black coat his mother described, and jammed an old black hat on his head. He passed his parents in the sitting room once more, hearing his mother’s final words:

“ _You,_ Sergey, get to tell my grandmother that you’re marrying her boy off!” Irina snapped, her dark eyes furious. Gleb sighed. Without meeting either of their eyes, he slipped out the door and down the back stairs.

* * *

“Maria Nikolayevna, Anastasia Nikolayevna,” the maid said gently, “Your father is asking after you.”

Anastasia looked up from her book, exchanging a cautious glance with Maria. Her older sister looked suspicious, raising an eyebrow at Anya.

“What did you do?” She whispered, “Were you and Alyosha playing pranks again?”

“No!” Anastasia huffed, then amended “...Well, nothing he’d find out about.”

“Tell me you didn’t hide Tanya’s favorite necklace,” Maria grumbled, “I suppose putting a frog in Olga’s bed is too obvious these days.”

“I’m nineteen, Marya,” Anastasia huffed, straightening her skirts out as she followed the maid out of the room, “Alexei’s the only one who plays those pranks anymore.”

“You just don’t play _obvious_ ones, you little trickster,” Maria clucked, but smiled slightly, tugging her sister close and giving her shoulders a brief squeeze. Anastasia grinned in spite of herself, leaning her head on Maria’s shoulder as they walked. The walls of the palace seemed emptier, many of the paintings sold or still hidden in corners of Europe with other family members.

“What do you think he wants?” She asked, curious, “Olga is with Mama and Cousin Dmitri, and Tanya is writing to her Sasha, or at least that’s what she said she was going to do after she got back from the hospital.”

“Maybe it’s something about Alexei,” Maria hummed, thanking the maid as she opened the door to their father’s study. Anastasia thanked her as well, watching the door close. She looked to their father’s desk just in time to see the Tsar look up.

“My daughters,” Tsar Nicholas said, mustering up a rather faint smile. 

“Papa, what’s wrong?” Maria asked immediately, letting go of Anastasia to stride confidently to his desk, “Is it about Alexei?”

“Did Baroness Sophie find the frog?” Anastasia gulped.

Maria and Nicholas both cast sharp looks at her.

“I mean, never mind,” Anastasia corrected, “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

The tsar sighed very deeply.

“Oh, my girls,” he murmured, “Sit down. I have… terrible news.”

“You met with the Bolsheviks today,” Maria prompted, “Right, Papa?”

“I did,” Nicholas said grimly, “They had a finalized version of that proclamation. We have been working on it for a while, hammering out details and such. You know this. We, meaning myself and several of your cousins and our fellow courtiers, fulfilled several parts of it, in that we’re selling off ‘unnecessary’ parts of our wealth to feed our population.”

“Bet Olga and Tanya liked that,” Anastasia muttered to Maria. Her sister kicked her. Nicholas, used to this behavior, sighed and continued.

“We are also working on putting together a body of government so that the common people can make decisions about the way they are ruled,” he continued, “Which is going as well as you think it is.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Maria said gently, reaching out to touch their father’s hand, “It must be very stressful.”

“I can deal with all of this,” Nicholas said quietly, “But they have decided that a good way to unite the Red and White factions is to marry one of you girls to one of their boys.”

Maria and Anastasia stared at the tsar, then looked in horror at each other.

“Not Tanya,” they said in unison, and Maria continued, “No, she loves Sasha, you can’t do that to her!”

“And Olga is with Mitya, right?” Anastasia added, “Mama wouldn’t allow it—“

“The Bolsheviks have agreed,” Nicholas nodded, “That is why the candidate they put forth to us is only twenty-two.”

Maria was twenty-one. Anastasia was nineteen. Both girls stared at each other, two sets of blue eyes equally baffled and horror-struck.

“I’ll do it,” Maria said, not looking away from Anastasia. “I won’t let you marry him, whoever he is.”

“Masha, _no!”_ Anastasia gasped, “No! You’re—“

Just in time, she looked to their father. Maria sat straighter in her seat, her cheeks the palest shade of pink. Nicholas gave the pair a look that seemed to say neither of them was all that clever.

“Olga’s betrothal is close to being solidified, and Tatiana is engaged,” he explained, “Maria, I know you are still in contact with Lord Mountbatten, but…”

Maria blushed, looking miserable. Her blue eyes were cast down into her lap.

“Nothing is confirmed,” she said quietly, “I haven’t promised Louis—Lord Mountbatten anything yet.”

Maria—soft, quiet, Maria, the gentlest Romanov daughter—miserable? Not even the most hardened hearts could have stood it.

“I’ll do it,” Anastasia declared, “He’s twenty-two, I’m nineteen. Don’t they say older boys make for a better marriage? And I’ll keep him in line. And Maria will get to marry Louie. What’s his name?”

“His name is Gleb Vaganov,” Nicholas replied, reaching over his desk to take Anya’s hand. “You may remember his father. I’ll be talking with some of the other members of the Party. I don’t want you forced into this if you don’t have to be.”

“It makes sense why they’d want it, though,” Anastasia replied, pursing her lips.

“For unity?” Maria asked, her voice choked.

“To humiliate us,” Anastasia replied, determined, “But don’t worry, Papa. If you can’t get me out of this, I’ll humiliate him right back.”

* * *

The rooftop of the Winter Palace was quiet and cool, and Anastasia wrapped a shawl around herself as she sat, staring at the paint chipping on the balustrade. There was a grunt, some clanging of metal, and suddenly she was no longer alone.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured, her words lacking heat.

“Some of us have _jobs_ , Princess,” Dmitry gasped out, “And _some_ of us forgot to leave out the rope ladder to get up here.”

Anastasia looked over at the ladder, slightly guilty.

“Oops,” she sighed.

“ _Oops?_ That’s all I get, after climbing up the window molding?” Dmitry chortled, “Boy, whatever is wrong must really be something, huh?”

“I’m getting married, Dima,” she said dully, staring out at the Neva lapping at the banks. Dmitry sat still for a second, disbelieving.

“…I’m sorry, did you just say you’re getting _married?”_ Dmitry repeated, his brown hair falling into his eyes, “You’re going to have to give me more than that, Anya!”

“I’m getting _married,_ Dima, to a _Bolshevik,_ Dima, in order to ‘preserve the peace,’ _Dima_!” Anastasia griped, tears of anger filling her eyes and choking her voice against her will, “That’s it! That’s all I know! I don’t even know his _patronymic_!”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Dmitry breathed, placing his hands on her shoulders. Anastasia swallowed hard, taking a deep breath. The tears abated slightly. 

“It was between Maria and I,” she continued, “But Maria is in love with Louis, and of course I’m not in love with anyone, so that means I have to marry a Bolshevik! Some Red Russian who probably is an illiterate country hick with a beard down to his—“

Anastasia paused, trying to remember what her father had said.

“His name is Gleb Vaganov. He’s twenty-two,” she said unsteadily, “I don’t know much more than that.”

“There’s a Sergey Vaganov close to Lenin,” Dmitry said cautiously, “And a Gleb Vaganov who’s involved with the Party. He was supposed to work with the CHEKA after service somewhere snowy, but it seems like he’s pursuing other avenues of work within the Party.” Anastasia relaxed against his side, feeling the tension go out of her body.

“Sergey,” she murmured, “Now I remember.”

A tall man with brown-blond hair streaked with grey, cracking the boards over the windows of the House of Special Purpose and offering her a drag of his cigar when she asked. She'd coughed. Talking about his son, a boy named Gleb, who looked like his mother Irina but had the temperament of his great-grandmother Evgenia, a famous socialite who was now retired in St. Petersburg and was reportedly one of the oldest women in Russia.

“Some family you’re marrying into,” Dmitry muttered, “Is there any way to get out of this? Like, have they talked to your mother?”

“I doubt it,” Anastasia sighed, “If you hear any screaming from the north-west apartments, that’s probably her.”

The pair paused briefly. In the distance, the Neva slapped against the embankment and a bird called.

“In any case, I’m determined to win this marriage,” Anastasia sighed, flopping onto the roof on her back. She pulled the shawl tighter around her body.

“How do you _win_ a marriage?” Dmitry sighed, joining her in staring at the clouds, “I thought it was supposed to be a partnership.”

“No, I mean I’m going to make this an awful experience for him,” she groaned, “And it’s not going to be _pleasant_ for me, but I’ll have a better time than he will, you know?”

“And you’ll eventually make lots of little Bolsheviks, huh?” Dmitry scoffed, before turning his head to look at her seriously. “I know… some of the girls in the kitchens know how to use rue to make tea that won’t kill you.”

“Rue?” Anastasia blinked, “What of it?”

“It’s for… you know, getting rid of babies,” Dmitry said, turning pink, “I mean, if he’s someone you used to know, or who knew of you? What if he’s in this to marry a princess? And secure a place on the throne? That’s how the Bolsheviks will gain control of all the branches of government, because who cares if the Tsar doesn’t agree? There’s a perfectly nice Bolshevik boy to put on the throne. Possibly a Bolshevik boy with a wife who’s already giving him heirs.”

“You think that’s going to happen? That’s what Gleb Vaganov wants?” Anastasia breathed, “He’ll kill me once he’s gotten… once we’ve had a child?”

Dmitry paused, considering this. He sighed, looking out across the Neva as well.

“I don’t think we can blame Gleb Vaganov for this,” he allowed, “At least, not entirely. Gleb Vaganov probably doesn’t want to murder you after you have his child. But… those goals, or similar goals probably exist in the Party.”

“Right,” Anastasia sighed, “Okay. That’s comforting.”

“If it makes you feel better, remember you all survived nearly being murdered a few years ago, right?” Dmitry pointed out.

“ _Right_ ,” Anastasia said grimly, “Because I had forgotten that bit.”

“I’m trying to help!” Dmitry protested. They were silent for a few moments, listening to the noise of cars on the street and the waves of the Neva. From inside the palace, a voice could be heard calling. 

“ _Anastasia_! Where could she be, Olga?”

“Come on, Tanya. Not in here, I think.”

“We have to go,” Anastasia sighed, “Or at least _I_ do.”

Dmitry groaned, but produced a flask from somewhere within his vest. He uncapped it and passed it to Anastasia. 

“You’re going to need this,” he said.

“Your vodka always tastes like paint thinner, Dima,” Anastasia groaned, but took a swig anyways.

* * *

Three days later, it was set, despite the kicking and screaming of what felt like every Romanov save Anastasia and Nicholas. The Tsarina had thrown the mother of all fits, furious in equal parts with her husband and with the Bolsheviks. Olga and Tatiana both offered themselves up as sacrifices. Maria tried to offer herself once more, and Alexei, in lieu of marriage, offered to kill Gleb for her.

“You’re so calm, Nastasya,” Alexei whispered as he and Anastasia crouched by the balcony overlooking the staircase. Nicholas and Alexandra waited for the servant that would announce the arrival of the Vaganov family.

“I wouldn’t be nearly as calm as you are, if I had to marry someone I never even met,” he continued.

“I have no choice, Alyosha,” Anastasia whispered back, “But you remember what I said. I’ll make his life hell for making me do this.”

“I remember, I just—“

“A car is pulling up,” Maria called, from a few hallways away, hiking up her skirts and beginning to run towards the rest of the family. Olga sighed, rising from her chair, and Tatiana shot them both a look.

“Stop hiding, you two,” she huffed, “We all need to be down there when the Vaganovs get here.”

“Why do we have to meet them?” Alexei whined, “None of us want to do this!”

“We have to hope that Gleb Vaganov doesn’t want this as much as you do, Nastasya,” Maria sighed, tucking a soft brown curl behind her ear before following Olga and Tatiana, “Now come down soon, alright? At least take Alexei so you make an entrance.”

Anastasia nodded and stared out, watching as her sisters took their places by their parents and waited. A servant softly announced the arrival of the Vaganov family, and Anastasia took a deep breath, swallowing hard. She stood, stepping back so that the shadows hid her, and Alexei followed.

Through the empty hall walked Sergey Vaganov, his brown-blond hair streaked with more grey than Anastasia remembered from when he guarded Ipatiev House. On his arm was a beautiful woman around the Tsarina’s age, her hair a mess of glossy black curls. She looked nervous, glancing behind her. Despite only seeing a photograph once, she knew who the woman was.

“That’s Irina Vaganova,” she whispered to Alexei, “It must be. Sergey used to talk about her, remember?”

“I forgot you’re marrying Sergey’s son,” Alexei whispered sourly, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Your Imperial Majesties,” Sergey began, “It’s a pleasure to see you once again.”

“He didn’t bow!” Alexei hissed.

“Of course he didn’t, he’s a Bolshevik,” Anastasia whispered back, “But where’s Gleb?”

“And you, Sergey Petrovich,” the Tsar replied, “I only regret the circumstances.”

“I remember your daughter being a lovely girl,” Sergey said, voice strained, “We hope this will work out well in the end.”

“We can only hope,” Nicholas agreed, his own voice equally stressed. There was a long moment of silence that grew exponentially more awkward as the seconds past.

“You must remember my other daughters,” he continued, “And my wife, Alexandra.”

“Yes,” Sergey replied awkwardly, “I do remember. This is my wife, Irina Andreevna. My son is escorting his great-grandmother, who walks… slowly. I apologize for the delay.”

“No need,” Nicholas said smoothly, “Anastasia is escorting her brother Alexei, so I imagine they will arrive at around the same time.”

He looked up, casting an absolutely deadly look at the balcony. Despite being unseen, Anastasia and Alexei both took a step back, paling at the intensity of the look. It was a look that had promised and delivered punishment all through their childhoods.

“Guess we’d better head down, then,” Anastasia gulped. Alexei looked a cross between mutinous and vaguely ill. They walked towards the staircase, Anastasia trying her best not to clutch at Alexei’s arm—it was too easy to bruise her brother, after all.

“You’re telling me there were _no_ paintings on those walls?” Came the voice of a woman who was decidedly not Irina Vaganova, “My boy, they were practically crammed on there during the reign of Alexander III, don’t lie to me.”

Anastasia turned the corner, setting down the stairs. Sergey Vaganov offered her a reassuring smile, before turning to face the room.

“Baba,” said a man’s soft voice, “They had to sell many of them to help pay for the people’s welfare.”

As Anastasia and Alexei made it to the landing, through the doors came a snow-white borzoi on a leash, held by a very old woman with a shock of white hair that matched the borzoi’s fur, and—

Her future husband, apparently. He wore a Bolshevik uniform, one or two medals modestly decorating the lapels. The old woman was holding the leash of the borzoi in one hand, and holding the arm of her future husband with the other.

“We’re here, Baba,” he said softly, and that’s when he looked up and his dark eyes caught Anastasia’s own.

She froze on the staircase unwillingly, caught. He bowed, nothing like what she received when she was younger, but still the soft incline of his head and shoulders. 

“My son, Gleb,” she could hear Sergey say distantly, “And his great-grandmother, Evegenia Kostova.”

“Come on, Nastasya,” Alexei whispered, “We have to go downstairs.”

“This might not be as bad as we expected,” Tatiana whispered to her sisters.

Gleb slowly made his way across the room, his eyes fixed on her the entire time. Anastasia descended the stairs like she was wading through molasses. Their families stepped to the side, Alexei not daring to let Anastasia step away from him. The old woman on Gleb’s arm, Evgenia, stepped aside, letting the borzoi guide her towards Sergey. Gleb pat its white head.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, sizing each other up like a pair of wolves evaluating an adversary.

“It’s… wonderful to meet you at last. Comrade,” Gleb said, licking his lips.

The spell was broken.

“Call me _comrade_ again and I’ll have you shot,” Anastasia snapped.

On the other side of the room, hidden behind her parents, Maria dragged her hand across her face.

“No, Tanya,” she muttered, “This isn’t as bad as we expected. This is worse.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anastasia and Gleb would probably engage in fisticuffs if they could. After such a meeting Gleb, understandably, needs a drink. It's lucky that Nikolai Ivolgin is a bartender.

“Call me _comrade_ again and I’ll have you shot,” Anastasia had said.

Gleb ignored Maria’s muttered comment, stepping back as though he’d been slapped. Anastasia watched the guarded warmth she barely recognized slip away from his face. His soft mouth tightened, and he let out a bitter laugh.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he sneered, “What would you prefer I call you? _Nasya?_ My beauty? My darling wife, my future bride?”

Anastasia felt her cheeks burn red, her eyes going wide. 

The _gall_ of that Bolshevik!

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me anything at all!” She snapped, heedless of the irrationality, “You ought to be addressing me as Her Imperial Highness, Anastasia Nikolayevna!”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Your Imperial Highness Anastasia Nikolayevna, but we’re to be married, and I’m afraid that’ll be a bit of a mouthful when I’m saying my vows,” Gleb snorted.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to deal with it,” Anastasia nearly growled, taking a few steps down the stairs until she was standing two above where Gleb was. The foot of space made her only slightly taller than he was. 

Gleb realized this and smiled. It was, to Anastasia’s mind, an insolent and lazy smirk, utterly representative of the Bolshevik class as a whole.

“Then you, my dear, beloved future bride, really ought to prepare yourself for one of two outcomes,” he said, watching her turn an even brighter shade of red, “One is that they’ll elevate me to a similar status upon our marriage, and I’ll end up with some title.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Anastasia seethed. Gleb dropped the smile, leaning in. Gently, he tucked two fingers beneath Anastasia’s chin.

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to prepare yourself for becoming Madam Vaganova the Younger,” he shrugged, taking a step back. Anastasia took a step down the stairs, too furious to even consider that she was losing her height advantage.

“It’s a good thing that this marriage is arranged,” she hissed, “Because if I had a choice in the matter, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive in Russia!”

“And if you shoot everyone who calls you comrade, I suppose that might be the result!” Gleb snapped back.

Anastasia opened her mouth to fire off another insult before a loud, cackling laugh cut between the two of them. Both Anastasia and Gleb turned to look.

Evgenia Kostova shook her head, still snickering to herself. She nudged the borzoi forwards, who obediently trotted towards Gleb and sat itself at his feet. When she herself stopped, she looked in the direction of Anastasia, actually pinning her gaze on a rather startled Alexei. He scurried down the stairs, settling at the side of Nicholas.

“Good, good,” Evgenia said, her gaze still fixed in the empty spot Alexei had stood, “You two will be perfect for each other. What a match! Such spitfires! It’ll make for a happy marriage eventually.”

Gleb let out a soft sigh, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. 

“Baba…” he murmured.

“Now, Gleb, introduce me to your… what was it you called her?” Evgenia cackled, “Your darling, beloved future bride? I’ve met Grand Duchesses before, but none were going to become my great-granddaughter-in-law.”

Gleb looked back at Anastasia with the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. He met her eyes, not looking away as he said, “What’s your title again, _krasivaya moya_?”

“I _hate_ you,” Anastasia muttered, visibly seething, just as Gleb spoke over her, “Her Imperial Highness Anastasia Romanova, this is my great-grandmother, Madam Evgenia Kostova.”

“The correct term is, _may I present to you_ , your great-grandmother,” Anastasia said bitterly, “You have a lot to learn if you’re going to marry me, Gleb Vaganov. Do keep up.”

She paused.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam. Not so much your great-grandson, I’ll admit,” she added. The old woman’s eyes finally fixed on her, and she smiled. The irises were a pale, clouded blue, and Anastasia finally realized the reason for the borzoi. Evgenia’s smile widened.

“He’ll grow on you,” Evgenia chuckled, “Let me have a look at you. What color are your eyes, my dear?”

“I—oh,” Anastasia gulped, flinching back unconsciously as Evgenia reached her hand out to touch Anastasia’s face.

“Sorry,” she murmured, closing her eyes and letting the old woman ghost her fingertips over her face. “They’re blue. My eyes, I mean.”

“Yes, girl, I can’t see any longer,” Evgenia said, sounding amused, “You didn’t think I brought Boyar here to meet royalty for fun, did you?”

The borzoi, apparently Boyar, picked his head up at the name, but remained seated obediently at Gleb’s feet. 

“He helps make sure I don’t walk into walls,” Evgenia snorted, “Or at least he should. My, you are a pretty one, aren’t you?”

“Thank you,” Anastasia said, opening her eyes as Evgenia pulled away. Gleb, she found, was watching her. 

She glared. 

Gleb looked away. 

“Well!” Evgenia laughed, clapping her old, wrinkled hands together. The sound echoed in the silent room. Gleb looked at his parents, grimacing as he took in Irina’s expression—one that promised he would be hearing about his behavior later. Sergey looked like he needed a cigar. The Tsar looked like he needed a drink. The Tsarina strongly resembled Gleb’s old general immediately after the old man had been told they wouldn’t be receiving an extra shipment of ammunition: or, in other words, about ready to shoot the next person unfortunate enough to cross her path. 

“If that’s all settled, let’s have some tea and talk weddings,” Evgenia grinned, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Gleb knew better: his great grandmother reveled in awkward situations. 

“Are we thinking church or courthouse?”

“Church,” the tsarina said. “It’s tradition.”

“Courthouse,” Irina said. “Lenin wants to attend.”

Gleb looked at Anastasia. It was slightly gratifying to note that she too was bracing herself. Gleb took a deep breath and soldiered on.

 

* * *

 

“Kolya,” Gleb called, pushing open the polished wood door of the bar, “Are you in?”

“Came in just for you, Gleb,” Nikolai Ivolgin called from behind the bar, “And I also came in to make sure we were stocked for tonight, which I suppose amounts to the same thing.”

Kolya popped up from behind the bar, his light brown hair slicked neatly out of his face. His cheeks were red, and in that moment with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair slicked back neatly, he could have been a model for J.C. Leyendecker.

“So? How did it go?”

Gleb slid into the bar stool, rested his forearms on the counter, and slid down until his chin rested on his arms with a groan. 

“That good, eh?” Kolya chuckled, grabbing a shot glass. He pulled a bottle of vodka out from beneath the bar and poured a shot into the glass, passing it to Gleb.

“I said, ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,’” Gleb said, his mouth muffled against his coat sleeves, “And I was nervous, because no one bothered to tell me she was pretty, and this is my future _wife_ we’re talking about, so I tacked on _‘comrade’_ at the end.”

Gleb finally sat up to take the shot, his shoulders relaxing at the the burn. 

“Oh, Gleb,” Kolya laughed, “How did she react?”

“She told me she’d have me shot if I called her comrade again,” Gleb said miserably. Kolya burst into ringing giggles, shaking his head as he braced himself against the bar.

“Oh, Gleb!” He managed once more, “I’m sorry I’m laughing, but what did you expect?”

Kolya’s easy smile and generous pour made the sting Gleb felt after his first meeting with Anastasia ease a bit. He looked down at the polished wood with a slight smile.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting my mother to get in a shouting match with Tsarina Alexandra,” he grimaced, “My mother won that fight, but now I think all of my in-laws hate me.”

“What were your mother and the Tsarina arguing over?” Kolya asked, imagining Irina Vaganova in a temper. He shivered. 

“The Tsarina was going on about how she didn’t want her Anastasia stuck in a loveless marriage that would suck the life from her,” Gleb said, remembering the way his mother had drawn herself up to her full height and stepped close so she was nearly nose to nose with Alexandra. “And then my mother snapped that I was her only child, her only son, and how dare she imply that she wanted a loveless marriage for me as well.”

“That sounds terrifying,” Kolya grimaced.

“I think they respect each other now,” Gleb admit, “But the Tsarevich wouldn’t stop glaring at me the entire time I was there, and he whispered before I left that he was going to try to find a way to stop the wedding.

“And what did you say to that?” Kolya asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I told him he’s more than welcome to try, since I’m not keen on marrying his sister.”

Alexei had looked downright murderous at that, and had hissed that if Gleb hurt “Nastasya,” he would challenge him to a duel and kill him.

“And let me guess,” Kolya sighed, “He took that as an insult.”

“You guessed it,” Gleb groaned, “And none of the sisters seemed to like me either, although I suppose that’s to be expected.”

“None of them liked you?”  


“Anastasia said she hated me, Olga and Tatiana looked like they wanted to murder me, and I think Maria just felt sorry for me,” Gleb said, “Maybe Maria would be sympathetic, but she and Anastasia were put forth as brides together. So maybe she’s just glad she dodged a bullet.”

“Maybe,” Kolya sighed, looking pensive, “When’s the wedding?”

“In a couple weeks,” Gleb replied grimly, “The Tsarina was not happy about that. She says it isn’t nearly enough time to get a dress ready for Anastasia. Mama argued that if it’s a courthouse wedding, it probably shouldn’t be all that ostentatious, as a symbol of… I don’t know, they said it was supposed to be a symbol of how low the Romanovs have fallen.”

Kolya paused, biting his lip.

“Are they religious?”

“Very.”

“Sounds a bit cruel, Gleb.”

“I know, Kolya,” Gleb sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that in two weeks, I’m going to be a married man.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, in four weeks, Konstantin Levkov will be back in town,” Kolya said, and looked immediately as though he regretted bringing it up.

“Kostka is coming to St. Petersburg?” Gleb gaped, his head snapping up, “Kolya—“

“Leave it,” Kolya said quickly, “It means nothing. Our history means nothing. I don’t know why he’s coming to Petersburg instead of Moscow.”

“ _Kolya_ ,” Gleb tried, then acquiesced, “Alright, I won’t talk about it, but I will be keeping you busy over the next few weeks, alright?”

“I’d be grateful for being busy,” Kolya breathed, “I don’t want to think about seeing him again.”

“You’ll be fine!” Gleb grinned, affecting a confidence he didn’t quite feel, “Besides, I need your help at some point over the next few days. I need to buy Anastasia a ring.”

“Oh good lord,” Kolya groaned.

“Baba insisted, thankfully once we were out of earshot of any Romanovs,” Gleb sighed heavily, “But you know her.”

“I’d be more surprised if the great Evgenia Kostova _didn’t_ show up to meet the Tsar,” Kolya snorted, “Didn’t she meet every tsar since Alexander I?”

“Yes, and she made sure Tsar Nicholas II knew it,” Gleb huffed, “At least they liked Boyar. At least Boyar didn’t piss on their Persian carpeting.”

Gleb took another shot.

“That was unkind of me,” he said regretfully, “Boyar is a good dog, and good with Baba, and probably too well-trained to piss on anything other than a bush or fire hydrant.”

“Well, you never know,” Kolya sighed, “But Gleb, do you have the money for an engagement ring for Anastasia Nikolayevna?”

Gleb took a deep breath.

“Probably not,” he admit, “But I want to at least try to make up for the rotten first meeting we had. And any other prince in Europe would have bought her a ring, so I think it’s the least I can do.”

“Then I’m with you,” Kolya said evenly as the bar door swung open, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an actual paying customer to deal with.”

He softened his delivery with a wink, and moved easily to serve the Russians that had come in out of the chilly day. Gleb watched, lost in thought.

Anastasia Nikolayevna was beautiful, he admit to himself, and her temper didn’t do all that much to lessen her attractiveness. But at the same time, any attraction he felt was tempered by the memory of her glare, and the way she had barely condescended to bid him goodbye at the end of their time together.If he was honest, and the vodka allowed him to be, Gleb wanted this marriage to work: both to see the Party succeed and to advance in the Party hierarchy…

But in his most private of thoughts, he wanted a marriage like his parents had. Gleb had spent his life watching his parents flirt, watching his mother comfort his father during the difficult days of the time spent guarding Ipatiev House, and even in childhood, watching his father comfort his mother each painful time she lost a child. 

He had never thought too much on his own potential marriage, but had assumed that somewhere down the line, he’d meet a girl—some hazily identified figure, maybe with soft red-blonde hair like his friend Polina Arkadievna or with a beautiful laugh like Konstantin’s ex-fiancée Vera Vasilievna. He'd entertained thoughts of marriage with the fiery Lina Audroskaya during the war, but once she was transferred back to Moscow, he'd let that dream go as well. Marriage was, ostensibly, not imminent for Gleb Vaganov.

Yet here he was, saddled with Anastasia Nikolayevna. 

Beautiful, with blonde-brown hair and large blue eyes. Petite enough that he could probably lift her during a wedding waltz—a waltz they wouldn’t get, if they were married in a courthouse. God only knows what the reception would be like. And a waltz he highly doubted Anastasia would even let him have. 

_I hate you_ , she had muttered to him as she stood on the stairs, and while Gleb certainly wasn’t fond of his future bride himself…

A happy marriage was further away from Gleb Vaganov’s grasp than he ever thought.

“Kolya,” he called, “Can I have another shot?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: ring shopping and a wedding.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how can anybody have you / how can anybody have you and lose you / how can anybody have you and lose you and not lose their minds?
> 
> or, in short, rings and a wedding.

Maria Romanova admittedly wasn’t quite certain what she was doing. She wore a neatly fitted cloche, trimmed with fur fit for the cool weather, and her dark, anonymous coat was belted around her waist as she walked quickly to the Hotel International, where the Vaganovs had recently been moved to on orders of high-ranking Party officials. 

_For a party so concerned with not appearing bourgeois, they certainly weren’t sparing expenses for the important members,_ she thought, then chastised herself for being uncharitable. _Gleb Vaganov doesn’t want this as much as my sister._  

And besides, Gleb Vaganov seemed a decent sort. It was Gleb Vaganov who had telegrammed the Tsar the day before, asking as politely as he could if he could borrow another of the Romanov sisters for an unspecified purpose—or at least that’s what Nicholas had told her. She suspected her father knew the true reason for this errand, but simply wouldn’t tell her.

Across the street, the grand facade of the Hotel International stood modestly, its luxurious sister the Hotel Angleterre looming over it. In front of the hotel stood two men, one blond and one dark-haired, talking.

Maria squinted.

Yes, that was Gleb Vaganov, all right. And he was actually smiling! He seemed relaxed, if a bit cold, but that was to be expected in mid-autumn. The blond man said something that made Gleb laugh and elbow him in response. When he laughed, and laughed _genuinely_ , instead of smirking to try and piss off Nastasya, he looked... Almost handsome.

_For all his faults, at least her sister wasn’t marrying a Bolshevik who looked like a troll,_ Maria thought as she crossed the street. Gleb did a double-take as she came closer, immediately straightening up and holding himself like a soldier. Maria observed him as she slowed her pace. He carried himself like his father, when there were other soldiers around. She remembered how Sergey Vaganov would never relax until the other soldiers left the room. She wasn’t sure she liked being considered a threat, but pressed on until she met up with the pair.

“Maria Nikolayevna?” Gleb said uncertainly, “Thank you for coming. I do appreciate it, more than you know.”

“It’s a nice day, Gleb Sergeyevich,” Maria responded cautiously, as Gleb extended his hand for her to shake. She took it, nodding as they shook once. 

“This is my dear friend Nikolai Borisovich Ivolgin, also known as Kolya,” Gleb introduced, and Maria smiled as the blond gave her a little bow.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess,” he said, smiling. His cheeks were red from the cold.

“May we address you as simply Maria Nikolayevna?” Kolya asked, “I don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves, especially where we’re going.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Maria laughed, “I’m not Anastasia, and I’m not going to be contrary about it. She’s usually not that contrary either, really, I promise!”

Gleb’s lips quirked up in a small, but genuine smile.

“I’m happy to hear that,” he confessed, “This is challenging enough as it is. Shall we, before Kolya turns into an icicle?”

“Oh, of course,” Maria nodded, feeling the wind seep through her coat, “But, ah... where are we going?”

Gleb’s dark brown eyes widened. “You mean your father didn’t tell you? Well, no matter. I... well, the thing is, I thought it might be nice if—“

“We’re going ring-shopping for your sister,” Kolya cut in cheerfully, “Gleb will live with his parents in the Hotel International for months if he has to, as long as he can do the right thing and buy your sister the engagement ring he says she deserves.”

Louis, of course, hadn’t dared propose to Maria yet. Certainly not through letters. He was tied up in paperwork back in England, but he had tentatively asked in his last letter if perhaps, if she was willing, he could come visit her in St. Petersburg soon? Maria had yet to respond to his letter, paralyzed with delight and joy that the man she quite possibly loved could finally meet her once more in person. She knew he would bring a ring when he did, and thus would begin the rest of Maria Nikolayevna’s life.

Anastasia would never have that luxury of such joy, Maria reflected sadly, but the man she was marrying at least had the decency to _try._ Dear God, was Gleb Vaganov trying.

“My father picked the right sister for this errand,” Maria said, a faint smile on her lips, “I know Nastasya’s taste in jewelry better than anyone else in the family. We used to play dress-up with Nana and Mama’s jewels as children.”

Gleb and Kolya exchanged a glance, Kolya blinking his grey eyes.

“What?” Maria asked, crossing her arms.

“I’m sorry,” Gleb said gently, “It’s just that, well, Kolya and I come from a very different world.”

“We’re lucky to have you along!” Kolya exclaimed, preventing further discussion of that point, and offered Maria his arm, “Come, let’s go see the diamonds and precious stones Petersburg has to offer!”

Maria shook her head, amused, but took Kolya’s arm, and watched as Gleb hailed a cab to take them to the jewelry district.

“He’s very nervous,” Kolya whispered to Maria as they watched Gleb wave down a cab. In his suit, he didn’t look like a Party member in uniform, simply another comrade on the street. 

“He should be,” Maria whispered back, “But it’s a good thing he’s doing. Nastasya deserves it.”

“Alright, this one!” Gleb called, standing in the gutter and holding the door, “Come along, comrades!”

“Did Gleb tell you he called Anastasia ‘comrade?’” Maria asked Kolya as they hurried into the cab, leaves crunching under their feet. Gleb groaned as Kolya laughed. 

“Oh yes, he did,” Kolya snorted, “And he told me her reply as well.”

It seemed to Gleb that Maria and Kolya were still laughing as they pulled up at the first jewelry shop. But he couldn't be angry, as bringing Maria along for advice was possibly the best idea Gleb could have had. He was exceptionally grateful for her presence as he listened to Maria speak softly about diamond cuts and clarity.

“Thank you,” he said at one point, when she led them out of a store on the basis that they would be painfully overcharged.

“What? Even a Romanov wouldn’t pay that much for a sapphire,” she quipped, but paused when Gleb shook his head. 

“It’s been good to hear about your family from you, rather than from rumors and stories,” he said, “But your advice on Anastasia’s ring preferences has been invaluable.”

“You’re trying to be decent to my sister,” Maria said quietly, “It’s not your fault you were chosen. I’d dislike anyone who was being forced to marry my little sister, but you’re at least... trying.”

“That I am,” Gleb nodded as they entered another shop. The glittering diamonds caught his eye first thing, and he bent to look at them. 

“Would Madame like to try on a ring?” The jeweler asked, and Gleb looked to Maria. She hummed, nodding.

“It’s for my sister,” she said, “But we switch rings all the time.”

“Just now this one,” Kolya joked. Gleb smiled faintly as he stared into the case. 

“What about that one in the corner, with the matching wedding band?” He asked Maria, of a ring with one large diamond in the center. [It was white-gold, and was inset with two tiny diamonds on either side, and beautiful engravings down to the center of the band.](https://ericaweiner.com/collections/engagement/products/deco-62ct-french-cut-diamond-engagement-ring)

“Oh,” Maria breathed, “Oh, Gleb, she’d love it!”

Gleb turned to the jeweler. “How much is it? How much are both rings? Here, Maria, try it on...”

The jeweler told them the price. 

Gleb and Kolya went white.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Maria asked, “Only—“

“That’s six months rent, in a _good_ area,” Kolya choked out. Gleb looked equally pale. 

“I was hoping we could find an apartment,” he managed, “Away from both, ah, your parents and mine. Start fresh with something that was just our own.”

The trio was silent for a long moment.

“There’s a… wing,” Maria finally broke the silence, “That’s under construction. Papa said you could live there.”

“I know, but…” Gleb tried, biting his lip. He stared at the ring in his hands, conflicted.

“She’ll like it,” Maria said gently, “And you can still move out afterwards.”

Gleb let out a deep breath, and turned to the jeweler. 

“I’ll take it, and the matching wedding band,” he said, “My fiancée can find a wedding band for me, if she feels like it.”

* * *

The gold ring was clenched in Anastasia’s bare hand. Outside, it had begun to snow as November rolled in. She took a deep breath, grateful to the fire in the Winter Palace as she watched it sift down, like powdered sugar over a dessert. Olga fussed with the hem of her hastily constructed wedding dress, trying to make it hang evenly.

“The train might be a bit much, the way we’ve constructed it—“

“Then I’ll wear it as a scarf when we’re on our way to the courthouse,” Anastasia snapped, turning so quickly that the champagne colored silk slid out of her sister’s hands. Olga straightened up, looking worried.

“I want this to be as good of a wedding day as you can have, Nastasya,” she said gently, “That’s all.”

“I know. I know, I know, I know,” Anastasia muttered, dropping her head into her hands. The gold metal of the ring pressed into her cheek. In several hours, it would be on her husband’s hand, and she would have a _husband._ She swallowed hard.

“Nastasya,” Tatiana breathed, before Alexandra swept into the room. 

“Everyone out,” the Tsarina ordered, “Out! I need to speak with Anastasia alone.” 

Anastasia collapsed onto the couch, her head still in her hands, ring still pressing against her cheek.

“Mama,” she choked, “I can’t do this. I can’t get married. I’ve met him twice.”

She had dreamt, the night before, of a dark-eyed boy staring up at Ipatiev House. Anastasia stared through the cracks in the boards covering the window. Someone had shouted the name of her fiancé, possibly his father, and he turned to enter the house across the street. He looked back, and that was when she woke up.

Was it a memory? Or just a dream? She wasn’t sure.

“I’ve received a wire from your grandmother,” Alexandra said, her voice crisp and clear. She knelt in front of Anastasia, and through her fingers, Anastasia could see the cool grey fabric of her mother’s dress crease. 

“Mama—“

“Say the word, Nastasya, and I will put you in a cab and send you to Paris,” Alexandra said, and Anastasia lifted her head from her hands.

“What?” She gaped.

“Your grandmother, Maria Feodorovna, is willing to hide you in Paris for as long as this takes to settle down,” Alexandra said slowly, “I will make this happen for you, Nastasya. What do you want to do?”

Anastasia looked down at her hands.

Could she marry Gleb Vaganov in three hours?

She thought of Maria, then, and thought of what would happen to Russia if one member of the royal family was thought to be unreliable. Would they simply work their way through Romanov daughters until they got a marriage?

The gold ring gleamed. 

Anastasia lifted her head.

“No,” she said clearly, “I can’t do that. I’ll do my duty.”

Alexandra closed her eyes, letting out a long breath. Her mother took her hands, giving her fingertips a soft squeeze.

“I have never been more proud of you,” she whispered, “And I have never been so scared for you.”

“He won’t hurt me, Mama,” Anastasia whispered, “I won’t let him. I’m a Romanov. We survived worse.”

Alexandra took her daughter’s face into her hands and very gently kissed her hair. 

“Come along, then,” she murmured, “Your father wants to take photos.”

* * *

Gleb waited, his stomach in his throat, at the doors to the courthouse. He ignored the photographers and reporters clustered around, lying in wait for the rest of the party. Irina and Sergey were inside with a scattering of Party officials and nobles, as were his two groomsmen—Kolya, and his childhood friend Polina Arkadievna, up from Moscow for the occasion of his wedding. Polina herself wore a sleek skirt in place of pants, but cheerily made herself up to look as mannish as possible.

“What better time to be a flapper than your wedding, Gleb’ka?” She teased, “Better show those Romanovs what kind of family they’re marrying into.”

Outside with him at the top of the courthouse steps stood Evgenia and Boyar, the former humming a wedding song to herself. The latter was letting Gleb absently scratch behind his ears with a wagging tail. 

“I wish you would see that this could be the happiest day of your life, Gleb’ka,” Evgenia hummed, “Frankly, I wish I could _see_ it.”

“Don’t worry, Baba,” Gleb said, turning to her so his voice was clearer, “I’ll tell you everything. From her tiara to her toes, most likely.”

“Oh, I still have a tiara she could have worn,” Evgenia sighed wistfully, “One of the few things I haven’t had to sell over the years. Well, for your church wedding, which I’m sure they’ll insist you have; no Romanov has ever been content with a civil ceremony… I’ll see if I can scrounge it up for your bride. Hm?”

“That sounds like… a plan…” Gleb gulped, watching a car pull up in front of the courthouse. It was scant blocks from the Yusupov Palace, where their sad reception would be held later, and St. Isaac’s Cathedral, the one place in Petersburg Gleb wanted less to be than his current predicament.

A chauffeur jumped out of the car, opening the doors for Tsar Nicholas and his wife. The photographers that had been lurking burst into a cacophony of cries and flashbulbs. Nicholas caught sight of his future son-in-law and offered a tense smile with an equally grim wave. Alexandra, in a fur coat, stared but did not acknowledge him in any way. 

The chauffeur helped one of the daughters out, wearing a crown of flowers and gold thread that gleamed in the grey light. She looked up at him and Gleb could see it was Maria. 

“Go inside,” she called, passing the photographers, “It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!”

Gleb forced a smile, and called back, “I’d imagine we need all the luck we can get!”

“Which girl was that?” Evgenia asked, taking Gleb’s arm as they made their way inside.

“Maria,” Gleb replied, “Second-youngest sister.”

“Ah, the one who dodged a bullet,” Evgenia chuckled, “No wonder she’s pleasant to you. She can afford to be.”

Gleb sighed, walking through the large, empty halls of the courthouse. The dark wood paneling shone dully in the electric lamps, and Gleb made his way into the main courtroom, trying to walk steadily. 

“You faced down soldiers, Gleb’ka,” Evgenia tried to soothe, “This is one woman.”

“Baba, you told me to never underestimate a woman, because you’re all craftier and cleverer than men,” Gleb pointed out. Evgenia cackled.

“That’s true, that’s true, and you’re a good boy for remembering. My favorite great-grandson,” she replied, a wide grin on her wrinkled face, “Just remember, your future wife won’t have a gun. You’ll be fine.”

Gleb bit his lip. 

_Sometimes, people without guns could hurt you worse._

The next few minutes were a blur: the officiant wrangled Gleb’s groomsman and groomswoman, Irina Vaganova began to cry and hugged her son so tightly that his suit was wrinkled and she immediately had to fix it, Sergey Vaganov pulled out a flask and handed it to his son. Gleb took a shot, feeling the vodka warm him from the inside out.

“I’m not ready,” he muttered, watching several high-ranking officials walk in amidst several discomfited nobles. Lenin looked sharp as usual, and Trotsky looked… mildly sympathetic and slightly amused as Gleb tried to pass the flask discreetly back to his father.

“Too late,” Polina said, her red lips parting to reveal sharp, white teeth, “You’re in too deep now.”

The officiant entered and told everyone to take a seat, either on the bride’s side or the groom’s side. Gleb felt like laughing—it was as though the officiant had told them to be seated according to whether they were wearing uniforms or furs. 

Polina and Kolya straightened up next to Gleb.

“Don’t call her comrade,” Kolya whispered.

Gleb laughed, feeling his shoulders relax somewhat. The doors opened, and the Tsarina walked in. It was as though a spell had been cast: despite her simple grey day dress, she still walked with the manner of a queen. Her eyes on Gleb were disdainful, and she stood in the front row. Alexei followed, glaring daggers at Gleb. He found his place next to Alexandra, and she rested a hand on his shoulder, staring back at the doors.

The doors opened once more, and Olga and Tatiana walked in. They wore a matching set of deep blue dresses, cinched somewhere between the waist and hips with a band of silky, shiny champagne fabric. In their hands were small bouquets of flowers. Olga looked defiant, but Tatiana simply looked… sad, Gleb thought. He nodded at the pair, but only Tatiana nodded back. 

Maria Romanova entered. Her dress was slightly more embellished, and unlike her sisters, it looked like the band of beaded, pale gold fabric couldn’t be removed for later use of the dress. Gleb realized she must be Anastasia’s maid of honor. He felt his hands shake, and took a deep breath, staring at the door. A figure in champagne silk peered out, straightened, and turned through the door.

It was Anastasia, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

Her dress was all champagne silk or satin, flickering gold-white in the light. It was simple, however, Gleb knew immediately that like her sisters, Anastasia would use the dress again. Behind her was a train that rustled when she walked, and in her hair was a headband that sparkled in the light. Her face was blank, her pink lips pressed together in an expression that was not quite a frown. Her father, at her side, offered Gleb a tense smile, and at the front of the aisle he kissed her cheek before letting her go.

She took two steps forwards, stepping up to the dais that Gleb and the officiant stood on, and took a deep breath. 

“We are gathered here today to witness the consequential union of Gleb Sergeyevich Vaganov and Her Imperial Highness Anastasia Nikolayevna Romanova. Please be seated,” began the officiant.

Anastasia closed her eyes, handing the bouquet she carried to a waiting Maria. _I want this to be over_ , she thought, and hesitantly, reached out to take Gleb’s hands. 

His hands were warm, she noted distantly, feeling beyond removed from the situation. Gleb seemed just as distant, repeating statements after the officiant.

“Now, please produce the rings,” the officiant intoned after an what felt like an unimaginable amount of minutes.

Both of them stared for a long moment, before the officiant prompted once more, “The rings, please.”

An uncomfortable rustle filled the room. Gleb coughed, licking his lips as he removed a small bag from his pocket. To Anastasia’s amazement, two rings fell out into the palm of his hand, one with a diamond.

“An engagement…?” She murmured to Gleb, feeling all too loud in the silent room as she reached behind her to unclasp the necklace where she wore Gleb’s ring.

He nodded, looking faintly pleased but overall too ill to blush.

“I’ll explain more later,” he murmured back, before looking at the officiant as Anastasia pooled the gold chain and the gold ring in her palm. They turned to the officiant.

“Repeat after me,” the officiant intoned, “I, Gleb Sergeyevich, take you, Anastasia Nikolayevna, as my wedded wife and I promise you love, honor and respect; to be faithful to you, and not to forsake you until death do us part.”

Gleb took the wedding ring, a simple band of white gold, and took Anastasia’s hand. She felt his hand shake.

“I, Gleb, take you, Anastasia, as my wedded wife, and I promise you—“ and here he paused. “I promise you love, honor, and respect; to be faithful to you, and not to forsake you until death do us part.”

_He promised me love_ , she thought dimly as he slid the wedding band on her finger and then the engagement ring following it, _that bastard. Now I can’t omit it from my vows._

“And Anastasia Nikolayevna, repeat after me: I, Anastasia Nikolayevna, take you, Gleb Sergeyevich, as my wedded husband and I promise you love, honor and respect; to be faithful to you, and not to forsake you until death do us part.”

Anastasia took a breath, untangling the gold chain from the ring she had procured from the Romanov archives.

“I, Anastasia Nikolayevna,” she forced out, “Take you, Gleb… as my wedded husband…”  


She slid the band on his finger, thanking heaven that it fit. There was a long silence. Gleb squeezed her fingertips. 

“And I promise you l-love,” she coughed, and finished in a rush, “Honor, and respect; to be faithful to you, and to not forsake you until death do us part.”

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” said the officiant, sounding glad to be finished with the two of them, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Anastasia jerked her head up, looking at Gleb.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice barely a breath and softer than a whisper.

Gleb looked stricken, but took a moment to grab the gold chain from Anastasia’s palm. He very gently lifted it, clasping it around the back of her neck. As he did so, he leaned in.

“I have to,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Make it quick,” she muttered in response, and his hand moved to cradle her cheek. Gleb, at that moment, struck her as being very sad. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers for a long moment, not daring to make any other moves before he pulled away. When he pulled back, Anastasia opened her eyes, blinking at the light as though it shocked her that they had been closed.

“Captain Gleb Sergeyevich Vaganov and Madam Anastasia Nikolayevna Vaganova,” the officiant said simply, and Anastasia fought the urge not to burst into tears.

_Madam Anastasia Vaganova_ , she thought, and smiled for the crowd. Her nails cut into her new husband’s palm. 

Though the polite clapping, Alexei could be heard whispering to his mother, a rather bereft, “But I never got a chance to object!”

_Neither did I, Alexei,_ Gleb thought, _neither did I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes… people who aren’t shooting at you… are worse. sometimes… your wife… is worse…
> 
> anyways, thank you so much for reading and commenting and loving this story!! i REALLY need to a.) finish my information technology assignment and b.) finish chapter 5 of WOSL (if you like OT3s check that out) so this next chapter will probably be a bit longer in coming. but seriously, your support means the world to me and it's what makes these chapters easy to write!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your song lyric for this chapter is: there's nothing i hate more than what i can't have. 
> 
> thanks, tswift. 
> 
> the reception, the long-awaited wedding night, and the first gruesome bits of a marriage.

The reception felt like a fever dream for Anastasia Vaganova. If she wasn’t flanked by her sisters, she was at her husband’s side, sitting with one hand clasped in his or his hand barely ghosting over her hip. Every time she looked at him, she didn’t feel the searing heat of loathing, but a curious numbness that wasn’t even broken by multiple glasses of champagne.

Her husband didn’t look much better. Gleb smiled faintly at the Party officials who came to congratulate him on his marriage, but overall looked as though he was miles away throughout the ceremony. At one point, his groomsman—Nikolai, she thought—came over with a martini glass in hand. Gleb drained the contents, olive and all, in one long swallow.

Anastasia was too tired and woozy with the effects of the champagne to even tell him how uncouth it was. 

The air of the grand ballroom seemed to vibrate with tension as aristocrats in dresses and suits that had seen several uses, and Party officials in smartly tailored suits, with wives wearing dresses imported from Paris. It was a vast, terrifying reversal, and when she could get away, she retreated to the balconies, where one of her siblings would usually hide her for a few blessed minutes.

Until it wasn’t one of her siblings.

Polina Varankina, her husband’s groomswoman, slunk onto the balcony with a martini glass in each hand and a cigarette clenched between her teeth. She set the glasses down, pulled out a lighter, and lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling.

“Here,” she said, pushing a martini closer to Anastasia, “It’s for you.”

Her red-gold hair gleamed in the light, and Anastasia watched as her lipstick left red lip prints on the white of her cigarette.

“Thank you,” Anastasia said warily, and took a sip.

“Listen, I’m just here for two things,” Polina said, staring over the barren, snow-dusted gardens, “I’m here to have a smoke and tell you one important thing about Gleb.”

Anastasia stiffened, and took a larger sip of her martini.

“And that is?” 

“He’s an honorable man,” Polina sighed, taking another drag of the cigarette. She leaned against the marble of the balcony. 

“I’ve known him my whole life,” she continued, “I don’t want you to be afraid of him. People in Yekaterinburg thought we’d get married for the longest time, and he thought maybe he’d have to do his duty and marry me, if neither of us fell in love.”

“And… you didn’t,” Anastasia breathed.

“I wish I’d said yes when he asked,” Polina said bitterly, “Because then he wouldn’t have been forced to marry you. But then you’d have married Kolya and been in an even worse situation there.”

“…Nikolai seems nice, though,” Anastasia gulped.

“Nikolai is nice, but I suppose you’ll find out why he’ll make a terrible husband at some point,” Polina drawled. “In any case, I’m not here to talk up Kolya.”

She sighed, taking a long sip of her own martini.

“Anastasia,” she said quietly, “I don’t want you to be afraid of Gleb. He’s a good man, and he won’t hurt you. That much, I can promise. Take care of him, will you?”

“I…” Anastasia began. Polina laughed bitterly, a harsh and unkind sound.

“Don’t lie to me and promise you will,” she said. “But there will be moments. And as his surrogate little sister, I expect you to _try_.”

Polina turned her gaze to Anya. It was very, very blue, and somehow, in the same manner of her husband’s gaze, it seemed to burn. 

“I-I’m needed inside,” Anastasia stammered, deeply unsettled, “Thank you for the drink.”

“You’re welcome,” Polina said, and turned away.

* * *

The new royal couple was permitted to leave the reception by ten, as most of the guests were on a steady slide into drunkenness. Alexandra had left earlier with Alexei, and Nicholas looked more and more stressed as the time went on. By the time someone repeated a toast they had made for the fourth time, Gleb leaned over to his new father-in-law to ask if they could make a break for it.

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir,” he began, “But I’ve never been to a royal wedding before, and certainly never been married before. Is… there any chance Anastasia and I can, erm… find our new apartments and leave?”

“Immediately, if possible,” Nicholas replied, “Give me a moment.”

Nicholas stood. He clinked his fork against his glass. Half the ballroom fell silent, the other half quieting as they saw who stood.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he said, his voice carrying across the room, “But I must say that I never expected my youngest daughter to be the first to marry.”

At his side, Anastasia sniffed. 

“As much as it hurts to let her go, she is forging a new path in a new Russia,” Nicholas continued, “And I wish her as much happiness as she can find at the side of her new husband. Anastasia, my Nastasya…” 

At this, he turned to his daughter, offering a surprisingly soft and misty-eyed expression.

“You will always be my little girl,” he said quietly. “And Gleb Sergeyevich…”

Nicholas wasn’t quite as misty-eyed, but he did smile gently.

“Take care of her, and welcome to our family. To the Vaganovs!”

“To the Vaganovs!” Cried the ballroom in return.

Gleb turned to Anastasia, holding up his glass of champagne. 

“To us,” he said, some of the first words he’d said directly too her all night.

“To us,” she said in return, clinking her glass against his own. She looked pale, and downed the champagne immediately. 

“Papa, can we go?” She asked, swallowing hard.

“Have Dmitry show you to your rooms,” the Tsar said, but he leaned over and gave her a hug. He whispered something into her ear that Gleb couldn’t quite hear, but Anastasia nodded tearfully. Her father pressed a kiss to her forehead, finally letting go. Gleb reached out his hand, and Anastasia took it, straightening up and looking far into the distance.

A slender, dark-haired man in a servant’s uniform waited for them at an unobtrusive exit. Anastasia relaxed only slightly as they passed through the door.

“Thank you, Dima,” she whispered.

“It’s my pleasure, Princess,” he said quietly.

His new wife closed her eyes and licked her lips.

“Your name is Dmitry?” Gleb said quietly, “Will you be… by our apartments? I’m afraid I’ll get lost here.”

Dmitry, for whatever reason, seemed pained by that statement.

“I will be serving in whatever capacity you wish, Your Royal Highness,” he said quietly.

It was Gleb’s turn to flinch, discomfited by the use of the title. 

“Please,” he said to Dmitry’s back as they were led through a rabbit-warren of halls, “Comrade or Gleb Sergeyevich will do. No need for titles.”

“Oh, how nice that the servants will be allowed to call me Anastasia Nikolayevna again,” Anastasia muttered under her breath. Gleb sighed.

“We can discuss this when we’re not drunk,” he muttered.

“Speak for yourself,” Anastasia snapped, “I’m much too sober for what’s about to happen.”

Gleb opened his mouth, watched Dmitry’s shoulders stiffen, and closed his mouth again.

“Of course,” he said quietly, and the two of them remained quiet until they reached their rooms.

“There are, of course, bells to call the maids if anything is not to your satisfaction,” Dmitry recited, casting Anastasia a pained look as he gave a small bow to the pair of them, “Your Imperial Highness. Your Royal Highness.”

“Dmitry,” Anastasia called after him, “Anastasia Nikolayevna still is fine.”

“Of course,” Dmitry said, but pointedly did not use either of their names as he said, “Good night.”

Anastasia sighed, her shoulders slumping. The champagne dress was unwrinkled, but she had wrapped a gold-embroidered white shawl over her shoulders that slipped down arms as she slumped. Without looking at Gleb, she pushed open the doors to reveal a sparsely furnished living room that still managed to be one of the most opulent places Gleb had ever set foot in.

“I’m going to remove my makeup,” she said grimly, staring at his lapels rather than his eyes, “And my jewelry. Unless you’d prefer me to keep it on?”

“No, no,” Gleb replied immediately, “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’m going to… explore.”

Anastasia gave him a terse nod in return, pressing her lips together as she disappeared through another set of doors. Gleb closed the doors to their sitting room behind him, hearing the satisfying _snick_ in the silence.

The sitting room had a fireplace that was blazing, clearly kept warm and waiting for them. There was a couch that looked like it had originated in the Victorian era, but the armchair close to the fireplace was made of leather, and Gleb longed to sink into it and hide behind a newspaper. The carpet was clearly Persian, but didn’t cover the entirety of the tile floor. Gleb hummed softly to himself, nodding, and passed into the next room, a study. There were two desks—one made of soft maplewood, a bit smaller than the larger, mahogany piece dwarfing a corner. 

Clearly, this was a study he and Anastasia were meant to share.

Gleb shook his head and moved on, finding another small sitting room with what looked like a breakfast table, two chairs, and little else, and finally reached the bedroom.

The bed was separated from the rest of the room by curtains, which were helpfully drawn so as to show off the gold-embroidered duvet (that didn’t match the rest of the room) and the smaller chaise lounge at the foot of the bed. Another door was shut, but Gleb could see the light and hear the running water, so he assumed his new wife was indeed, taking off her makeup (although in his opinion, she didn’t seem to be wearing all that much). 

He was investigating the wardrobe that someone had helpfully moved most of his clothes into and slowly stripping himself of his dress uniform when the door opened. 

Gleb turned.

He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was only in his undershirt, suspenders, and pants when he saw his new wife. Anastasia’s hair was startlingly long, falling across her shoulders down to her breasts. A memory of Lina Audroskaya flickered through his head, taking the nursing cap and pins out of her black hair, but that was during the war and he was a married man now. He shook the memory off.

His wife’s nightgown was white and simple, and seemed to be cinched at the waist. It had tiny cap-sleeves. Anastasia looked both cold and determined, and unlike Lina, there was a look in her blue eyes that Gleb could only classify as… frightened.

“Well?” Anastasia bit out, “We’ve come this far. Are you going to finish undressing?”

“Yes, in a moment,” Gleb said, licking his lips nervously. He eyed the chaise lounge, turning back to the wardrobe. The suspenders came off, then the pants. He found a pair of relatively nonthreatening flannel pajama pants and stepped into those, mind racing.

_She didn’t really expect him to…_?

Anastasia sat on the bed, fingering the duvet nervously.

“They took this from my bedroom,” she said quietly, “The duvet, I mean. I suppose _you_ think getting a new one to match the decor would be too bourgeois.”

“It has gold in it, doesn’t it?” Gleb muttered, “There’s enough gilt in this room to match.”

Anastasia’s cheeks flushed with a familiar anger, and Gleb sighed, waiting for her to fold her hands into her lap before he yanked the duvet off the bed. 

“What are you doing?!” Anastasia yelped, scrambling backwards on the bed, anger melting seamlessly into fear once more. There were blankets underneath, and Gleb looked at the bed approvingly, satisfied that his bride wouldn’t freeze. 

“Toss me a couple pillows,” he instructed. Anastasia’s fear dissipated into wariness, but she obligingly handed him the pillows.

“What are you doing, Gleb Sergeyevich?” She repeated, her voice tight with suspicion.  


“We’ve had a long day,” Gleb sighed, “And you don’t want to have sex with me.”

There was a long moment of silence from his new wife.

“…No,” Anastasia finally admit as though she was about to step into a trap, “Not particularly.”

“I’m not interested in taking you by force,” Gleb said quietly, “And I can’t imagine either of us will sleep if we’re in bed together, so I’m taking the chaise lounge.”

“And what do you expect in return?” Anastasia prodded, “If we don’t consummate this marriage, they’ll… they could annul it.”

It took Gleb a moment to process through that statement. 

Anastasia, to whatever extent, had accepted him as the devil she knew, and had decided that he was better than the devil she didn’t know. She still didn’t want to consummate their marriage, but frankly, neither did Gleb. And if it wasn’t consummated, they could both end up paying for the failure.

“…What are they looking for, in terms of consummation?” Gleb asked warily.

“Blood,” Anastasia replied, “Isn’t that how it is in the novels?”

Gleb rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to recall if he and Lina had stained any sheets during their time together. Unfortunately, when one was having a clandestine relationship with a nurse, that usually implied that beds were off-limits thanks to the “clandestine” part of the equation.

“You know what, why don’t you let me take care of that,” Gleb finally acquiesced, thinking of the condoms that were hopefully still in the pocket of his old uniform, “I’ll deal with it in the morning. For now…”

He walked to the wardrobe, finding his dress uniform, and pulled out a pocket knife. In a single flick of his wrist, it was open. He looked up to find Anastasia watching him, her blue eyes wide.

“Budge over for a minute, will you?” He huffed, and she scrambled off the bed, backing away. He took two steps forwards before sighing again.

“I’m not using this on _you_ ,” he sniped, “O ye of little faith in thy husband.”

“You haven’t given me much reason to have faith in you, _comrade_ ,” she mocked. Gleb blushed, looking down at the pristine white sheets. He looked between Anastasia in her nightdress and the bed, measuring intently before pricking his pinky finger with the knife. He hissed in pain as blood welled up.

Carefully, thinking of a fairytale Evgenia had told him as a child, he let three drops of blood fall onto the white sheets. Gleb sucked his finger into his mouth, smearing the blood on the sheets with the heel of his other hand, before gingerly flipping the knife close. 

“If you’ve got a darker nightgown, maybe change into that so it doesn’t stain,” he advised, before stealing another pillow.

“Sure you’ve taken enough pillows?” Anastasia jeered.

“You get the bed,” Gleb bit out, “I don’t want to hear any complaining about the pillows.”

Anastasia sighed, but walked to another wardrobe and found a deep, cranberry-colored robe for herself. Gleb sighed, stretching out on the chaise lounge. It was slightly too short, and he possibly might have fit better had he not taken three out of the four large pillows.

_But I’ve been kind enough tonight_ , he thought, and settled down. 

He could feel Anastasia’s eyes on him.

It was a long time before he slept.

* * *

She told Maria, of course, when she found a pale-faced Maria waiting at the door the next morning.

“How was it?” She whispered, the running water in the bathroom from where Gleb was shaving obscuring her voice, “Was he… unkind?”

“I didn’t have sex last night, Marya,” Anastasia whispered back, “So I suppose he was kind. He said he’d make it seem like we did, though. I don’t know how he’s going to do that.”

Maria shrugged, clearly equally bewildered by Gleb’s idea. 

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, pulling her younger sister into a hug, “Papa says you two should come to breakfast. I’m here to bring you, since I doubt your husband knows the way yet.”

“My husband doesn’t know _anything_ ,” Anastasia bit out, and of course, because the universe hated her, that was when Gleb walked out of the bathroom. He glanced between his wife and his new sister-in-law before shaking his head.

“Good morning, Maria Nikolayevna,” he said evenly, his yawn not quite masked, “I trust you slept well.”

“Quite well, Gleb Sergeyevich,” Maria said politely, averting her eyes at the sight of her new brother-in-law in only his trousers and an undershirt.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” he promised, “Apologies, I… can’t seem to find any of my dress shirts.”

He frowned at the wardrobe.

Anastasia smirked.

Maria waited until she was out of the room to drop her head into her hands.

“You can’t just… prank your husband into submission,” she groaned, “Nasya, he’s willing to bend! I think he’s willing to try! I mean, you have an _engagement_ ring from him.”

Anastasia shrugged. “I left him a shirt.”

There was a muffled curse from the bedroom. 

Maria sighed heavily. 

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised, Marya,” Anastasia huffed, “I told you I was going to make this marriage a living hell for him. That’s what I said I would do, and I’m holding myself to it.”

“I don’t know, Nasya,” Maria hesitated, “I know you didn’t want this—“

“You didn’t either,” Anastasia cut her off, impatient and still smarting from the indignity of it all, “You didn’t want him either, and I married him so you didn’t have to, Marya. If you wanted to treat him better, you should have married him.”

It was at that moment that Gleb walked out, casting another wary glance between the two of them.

“Breakfast?” He asked quietly, “I do hope I’ll be able to figure out the hallways sooner rather than later.”

Anastasia glared at him.

“I’m sure you will,” Maria replied awkwardly, “Follow me.”

* * *

The first couple weeks of Gleb Vaganov’s marriage followed the same miserable pattern. His parents had found a flat in St. Petersburg, but were back in Yekaterinburg dealing with the sale of Gleb’s childhood home and the move of the rest of their possessions, and so he was effectively adrift. Evgenia, for her part, provided a myriad of excuses for Gleb to leave the palace.

“How can you deny an old, blind woman her strapping young great-grandson for apartment renovations?” Evgenia pleaded over the telephone. “I can’t see any longer. I need Gleb to make sure I don’t have the walls painted orange or something equally awful.”

He could hear the laughter in her voice, however, and brought her trinkets from the palace in exchange each time he left to show his gratitude.

“Every time I try to leave, Baba, it’s as though it needs to be a _valid excuse_ ,” he complained over tea one afternoon, “They’re allowed to take me to the ballet and society soirées and parade me around, but if it’s not you or if it’s not a Party meeting, I get the worst glare from the Tsarina.”

“Romanovs,” Evgenia shrugged, “You wonder why there was a revolution to try and overthrow them? It’s because they’re all a bunch of homebodies that only left one palace to go to another one.”

“You went to balls when you were younger, Baba,” Gleb pointed out, “Didn’t you say you’ve visited every palace in the empire?”

“Yes, and then I went home to my townhouse with your great-grandfather and we kept working,” Evgenia shrugged, “And as I aged, the money ran out. And none of those counts and baronesses and princes and duchesses thought of me when I stopped attending balls.”

Gleb felt a rush of anger towards the family he married into.

“Bastards,” he muttered.

“Drink your tea, Gleb’ka,” Evgenia chuckled, patting Gleb’s hand, “It’s in the past. And as far as I know, most of them are either dead or wishing they were.”

Gleb sighed, drinking his tea.

“Now, how is that little spitfire you call your wife?” Evgenia asked.

Gleb choked on his tea. Evgenia’s wrinkled face crackled into a wide smile just before she laughed hard enough to make Boyar pick his white head up from by the fire.

“Baba, I’ve been sleeping on the chaise lounge because she’s got the bed,” he began, “I’ve taken the pillows as revenge, and I was considering giving them back, but then _she stole my shirts,_ and she’s been hiding my shoes every damn morning, my shaving cream was replaced by _whipped cream_ , she swapped my razor out for a dull, rusted one—“

“Oh, my darling boy,” Evgenia cackled, “She _likes_ you.”

Gleb’s mouth shut with the audible clack of his teeth.

“She _hates_ me, Baba,” he protested, “She has been playing a prank on me every day since we got married! We don’t share a bed! Even my _back_ knows she hates me, given that awful chaise lounge!”

“Take her out, show her a nice time,” Evgenia insisted with a chuckle. She took a long sip of tea.

“Your great-grandfather _wooed_ me, Gleb,” she continued, “Isn’t there somewhere nice you can take her?”

“She’s an Imperial Princess,” Gleb insisted, “Where am I going to take her that she hasn’t been? I mean, I doubt that’ll help—“

“Then take her somewhere that a princess wouldn’t have ever gone,” Evgenia shrugged, pinning Gleb with an uncanny stare, “You’re a Communist. Take her to a bar.”

“I’m not taking her to a _bar,_ Baba,” Gleb groaned, and Evgenia laughed and changed the subject. He thought it was the end of it, until about a week later, in which Gleb was dreading going outside without his winter coat. He was certain Anastasia had hidden it, which made him late for breakfast as he searched for it, which resulted in a wrong turn down a hallway that made him even more late.

“Oh, and Gleb,” the Tsarina drawled, “You were late this morning, so we forgot to give you a telegram.”

“I apologize,” Gleb began, trying to repress the immediate panic of a telegram. The war was over, but with the Tsarina reminding him so much of his old commanding officer, it took Gleb a moment to reassure himself that a telegram wasn’t necessarily bad news.

The Tsarina gave a heavy sigh and handed him the telegram with a look of disdain.

“Go on and read it,” she sighed in a manner that suggested he was unspeakably rude for wanting to read during family breakfast. Gleb, used to being snubbed during family breakfast, opened the telegram in spite of her disapproval.

_KONSTANTIN LEVKOV IN PETROGRAD. HOMECOMING PARTY TONIGHT. PLEASE ATTEND I AM BEGGING YOU. BRING H-I-H VAGANOVA._

_NIKOLAI IVOLGIN_

The table was silent as Gleb re-folded the telegram and tucked it in his pocket. 

“Well?” Alexei demanded huffily, “Aren’t you going to tell us what it says?”

Gleb allowed himself a slow, lazy smile, relaxing for the first time that morning.

“Anastasia,” he purred, “I think it’s high time you were introduced to the younger Bolshevik set. How do you feel about attending a party tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple of quick notes: eagle-eyed readers may notice gleb is styled as "his royal highness," while anastasia is "her imperial highness." she is still of higher rank than he is. considering he would prefer to have no rank or a military rank, he's about as cool with this as he's going to get. 
> 
> polina varankina is one of gleb's support network/best friends, whom i'm casually borrowing from WOSL. they've been friends since they were kids. in WOSL, before he was shipped out to war, he asked her to marry him when he was about 17 (your typical "what if i die in the war" proposal), and i rolled with that canon here. obviously, polina said no--she's smart, they were never romantic, and secretly she still nurses a grudge from when gleb threw a slushball at her new coat when they were about 12. 
> 
> lina audroskaya, as you may have guessed, was gleb's first (and only) girlfriend. you'll hear more about her later. she's not that important, but what she taught gleb will come in handy later.
> 
> thank you all for your support--no idea when the next chapter will be written, since we're on a steady slide into The Holidays.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apparently, one of the best signs of whether a relationship will last is whether your significant other gets along with your friends and family. gleb's already kind of fucked on the family bit, but perhaps anya will get along with his friends... only time will tell...

Anastasia stared at the mirror, observing her reflection critically. The grim, rational part of her mind said that it was only right that she accompany Gleb to this party, as it was—according to her husband—a homecoming party for one of the “younger set’s” dearest friends. If Gleb was to be believed, the inheritor of Evgenia Kostova’s title of “the Toast of Petersburg” was Konstantin Levkov.

“I haven’t seen him since midway through the war,” Gleb had said at breakfast with that infuriating Bolshevik smirk, “He was a year younger than Nikolai and I, and so instead of fighting, he went to school to better serve his country in intelligence.”

“Hmph,” Alexandra had sniffed, “I suppose this party won’t involve too much politicking.”

“Oh, it’s all about politics,” Gleb laughed, “Anastasia, darling, I hope you can steel yourself to toast Lenin.”

Alexei made a noise that implied he was about to vomit into his kasha. Tatiana rolled her eyes.

“Can we have one meal together that doesn’t involve squabbling?” Olga groaned, “I’m sure there will be as many politics as there are when we go out to the Opera.”

“Aren’t you going to the orchestra tonight?” Anastasia asked desperately. "Shouldn't I go too?"

“I think it would be a good idea for you to go with Gleb,” the Tsar hummed, his face tucked behind the morning paper. “He’s been to several events with the White Russians as your date. Now it’s time for you to return the favor.”

Six sets of betrayed Romanov eyes turned to stare at the Tsar. 

Gleb smiled into his tea.

Which led Anastasia to the current moment—horrified at herself for what she was about to ask, and yet her pride demanded she make the best impression possible on Gleb’s Communist friends, in order to eventually bend them to her will.

“Gleb?” She called, “Do you think this dress looks good on me? I want to make a good impression.”

Her husband emerged from the study, where Anastasia suspected he was hiding _something_ in the soft, maplewood desk he had claimed for himself. It was incredibly irksome that he cheerfully took the smaller desk without pause, letting her have the giant mahogany one she had initially thought he’d want and had therefore taken out of sheer spite. He looked her over from head to toe, eyes lingering on the beaded hem. Gleb nodded.

“You look nice,” he said easily, “You should wear those pearls your grandmother sent you from Paris. Polya says they’re in style. Is my bow tie crooked?”

It was. 

“It is,” Anastasia said, before she could stop herself, “You’re observant, aren’t you?”

“What, because I remembered your pearls?” Gleb asked with a quiet laugh, “It was my job back in the war, to be observant.”

“What job required that?” Anastasia asked, fixing Gleb’s tie resentfully, “A spy?”

“A spy-catcher,” Gleb corrected lightly, “It’s why I made Captain during the war.”

He hummed as her eyes widened in shock, reaching out to fix the neckline of her gown so it laid flat. His hands were warm.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the sitting room,” he added cheerfully, “I finally badgered Dmitry into smuggling me a copy of Pravda this morning.”

“That traitor,” Anastasia muttered darkly, vowing to have a word with her friend. As Gleb left the room, she guiltily realized that it had been far too long since she’d been able to speak with Dmitry. The rope ladder still sat in her old study, back in the room she shared with Maria. 

Anastasia sighed for a long moment. 

“Can’t fix that now,” she muttered to herself, and went to find her pearls.

* * *

Gleb hailed a cab as soon as they were off the grounds of the Winter Palace, opening the door for Anya and ushering her in.

“Can’t have my wife getting cold,” he said smoothly, and before Anastasia could protest, he was giving the driver directions to the bar where Konstantin Levkov’s party was going to be held.

“You don’t have to act like you care,” Anastasia muttered, “I’m your wife in name only, or don’t you remember?”

Gleb fixed her with a particularly burning stare, one that could have frozen a lesser man in his tracks.

“You are Anastasia Vaganova, my wife in every way,” he said quietly, “What we do or don’t do is our business alone.”

Anastasia gave the cab driver an uneasy glance, shifting away from him. He placed his hand over hers for a moment in her lap, causing Anastasia to squirm uncomfortably.

“I don’t want this marriage failing any more than you want it to,” he said, barely audible over the rumble of the engine, “There will be consequences if we fail, _lyubov moya.”_

“Don’t tell me we have to start trying for an heir?” Anastasia whispered.

“No, never, if you don’t want to,” Gleb said quietly, “But your barely-concealed dislike of me isn’t helping matters, darling.”

“Could you _not_ call me that?” Anastasia snapped automatically. Gleb sighed, squeezing her hand before letting it go.

“Conceal your dislike a bit better is all I’m saying,” he muttered, “And do try to enjoy yourself tonight, yeah? You’re the toast of the Bolsheviks right now. They all want to become your friend and thoroughly coax you to our side, you know.”

“Our side?” Anastasia blinked.

“Their side, our side, it doesn’t matter,” Gleb sighed, “We’re as good as ambassadors, these days. Ostensibly we are no longer Red Russians or White Russians, you and I.”

“I knew _that,_ ” Anastasia huffed, “I’ve been playing this political game for longer than you, Gleb.”

“I wasn’t—“ Gleb tried, then shook his head. “Just make an effort tonight, alright? My friends want to be able to like my wife.”

It took Anastasia a long moment to truly take in his words and what they meant. If she was reading the situation correctly, this wasn’t a typical Bolshevik function, or at least not the way Gleb had made it out to be over breakfast. It was just... a party? With his friends?

Anastasia shook her head as the car slowed down.

“Okay,” Anastasia muttered, “I’ll make the effort. _Gleb.”_

Gleb hesitated, giving her a long, wary look as the car stopped. He jumped out, opening the door, and the impact of her words seemed to hit him.

“ _Darling_ ,” he smiled, and held his hand out to her. Anastasia placed one gloved hand in his and stepped out, letting him guide her to the door with little more said. Outside the bar was quiet, but music could be heard through the doors. 

Gleb knocked on the door, watching as a pale face with dark eyes peered through a tiny slotted door.

“What’s the password?” The voice demanded in a Ukrainian accent.

“There’s—what do you mean there’s a password?” Gleb asked, astonished.

“Close! But not quite, Vaganov! Levkov’s set a password tonight, makes things more exclusive!” The voice responded. 

“Belinsky?” Gleb tried, “Pavel! You know it’s me!”

“Yeah, but— rules are rules,” the voice, apparently Pavel Belinsky, admonished, “Besides, you were close! Just one word off!”

“What do you mean there’s a— _Pavel._ My wife is with me,” Gleb huffed, his cheeks turning even more red than Anastasia had ever seen them.

“O- _ho,_ ” Pavel snickered, “Rules are rules, even if you’ve got your fancy lady with you.”

Gleb groaned, drawing his free hand over his face. Anastasia watched him curiously.

“…What do you mean there’s a _fucking password,”_ Gleb tried, and the door swung open to mask Anastasia’s laugher.

“You _cursed!”_ She said gleefully, “Not such a gentleman after all!”

Gleb grumbled, but remained quiet and rather pink as he handed off his coat to a nearby attendant. The bar was packed, a band in one corner blaring bright, brassy music. A large, circular bar was in the middle, and Anastasia could recognize Kolya and Polina, huddled close together with stemmed glasses in their hands. Kolya looked pale, and Polina looked as bored as usual. Pavel stood on a chair as Anastasia took in the sight of the rest of the bar, producing a giant cowbell from somewhere and ringing it.

The band quieted. 

“Their Imperial Highnesses the Vaganovs have _arrived_ ,” Pavel yelled, and a loud cheer shook the bar as all eyes turned to them, “Madame Anastasia Vaganova and of course, our very own Royal Highness, Prince Gleb Vaganov!”

“ _Pasha,_ ” Gleb sighed, “Must you?” 

He looked so tired and irked that Anastasia could forgive her own title being restricted to simply “Madame Vaganova.”

“Of course!” Pavel laughed, “Had to get the attention of the man of the hour!”

And lo and behold, a man Anastasia could only assume was Konstantin Levkov was making his way over to them. He was unquestionably gorgeous, and if Anastasia hadn’t known better, she would have said he carried himself like a prince. His chestnut curls, like those of a Renaissance cherub, fell charmingly over one green eye, and he tossed his head to get them out of his face. 

“Gleb Sergeyevich, as I live and breathe!” He gasped, before bestowing a radiant smile upon the two of them. He handed off a bottle of champagne to a passing young woman, who giggled softly as she took it from him. 

“Kostka Gregorievich,” Gleb greeted in return, his grim demeanor softening into a smile. Konstantin threw his arms around her husband, kissing him on both cheeks before pulling back with a delighted grin.

“And this must be—“

“My wife, Anastasia Nikolayevna, Imperial Princess of Russia,” Gleb introduced smoothly, “Anastasia, this is—“

“Please, you must call me Kostya, all my friends do, and we’re to be friends, are we not?” Konstantin laughed, and Anastasia dazedly noted that every word from his mouth sounded halfway to laughter.

“Of course,” she said gingerly, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you as well, Anya!” Konstantin beamed, “Oh, that _does_ suit you. Anya! A pretty, short name for a pretty, petite girl.”

Gleb looked like he was regretting bringing his wife there more and more by the second.

“Thank you?” Anastasia tried.

“Oh, it’s such a shame that I couldn’t attend the wedding,” Konstantin sighed dramatically, “I’m absolutely certain Gleb would have made me a groomsman as well, and I’d have known you much earlier. Has he told you about all the shenanigans we got up to before the war?”

Gleb hadn’t told her anything.

“He’s told me _everything,”_ Anastasia lied, but Konstantin began talking again before she had to elaborate on the lie.

“Well! How perfectly lovely,” Konstantin said, clapping his hands, “Come, come! We must introduce you to everyone. I’m certain Gleb absolutely _hates_ being a Prince, doesn’t he? But with such a charming wife, I’m sure he can’t complain!”

Gleb made a noise halfway to a snort. Anastasia glared at him.

“Ah, and you must meet Margit,” Konstantin said obliviously, “Margit! Gitta! Come meet Anya!”

“That’s not my name,” Anastasia whispered to Gleb.

“It is now,” Gleb replied, but looked down at his wife with a slightly amused expression. The furrow of his brow that she so often saw was gone.

“…Fine,” she said, and smiled as a young woman with hair as dark as her husband’s approached them. 

“Is this Gleb Vaganov and his wife?” She asked, her Russian soft and accented.

“Yes!” Konstantin beamed, “Margit, this is Gleb and Anya. Gleb, Anya, this is Margit Kedves, from Vienna.”

“And before Vienna, from Budapest,” Margit said with a gentle smile, “It’s so lovely to meet you, your highnesses.”

“Please,” Gleb said, shaking her hand, “It’s just Gleb and Anya. No need for formalities.”

Anastasia Nikolayevna took a deep breath, the sounds of the big band and the laugher of the party overwhelming her for a moment. She closed her eyes. 

When she opened them, Margit Kedves was watching her with a soft, concerned look.

“Yes, it’s just Anya Vaganova amongst friends,” Anya said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Margit.”

Margit smiled.

“What brings you to Russia, Margit?” Gleb asked, and that’s when Konstantin smiled slyly, beckoning them back to the bar in the center of the room. Anya smiled at Kolya and Polina as she passed by. Polina looked as inscrutable as usual, her hair pinned back in a braid the color of flames. Kolya smiled slightly, but his countenance was one of anxiety. 

“Well,” Margit began hesitantly, “I came with Kostya, since he graduated and wants to live in Petrograd again…”

“But that means—“ Anya began, looking down at Margit’s hands. Her fingers were bare, but a long chain was tucked under the collar of her dress. Anya’s thoughts were interrupted by Konstantin clambering on top of the bar, a bottle of champagne once more in his hand. 

“My friends!” He called, “I have a couple announcements!”

There was a rather loud cheer, one which Konstantin let die down before he continued.

“I want to thank all of you for welcoming me back to Petersburg,” he said cheerfully, “I have missed all of you terribly, and I missed a great deal—like my friend Gleb Vaganov’s wedding!”

At her side, Gleb laughed, but Anya could tell it was forced. Something big was about to happen, she could tell, but politics of this new group were unfamiliar. 

“Gleb, I know that I would have been your groomsman had I been back in Russia,” Konstantin said blithely, and Gleb’s smile looked more brittle by the moment, “But I wasn’t! However, we all have a brand new chance to talk wedding planning, because I’m engaged to be married to the beautiful Margit Kedves of Budapest!”

Gleb looked stunned. His dark eyes were wide and blank, and her husband wore an expression that Anya had come to recognize as “carefully masked panic.” Polina had already smiled and was clapping, but Kolya looked like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights.

Konstantin beamed at the applause his announcement garnered, unaware of his friends’ turmoil. 

“And Gleb, I’m sure you’re sick of wedding planning, so while I want you to be my groomsman, I can’t ask you to be my best man,” Konstantin continued, “But Nikolai Borisovich, you promised me once that you would do anything to make me happy, so I must ask you to make good on that promise… and be my best man, when I marry Margit, hopefully in the summer. Will you?”

Anya looked to Kolya. His deer-in-the-crosshairs expression had changed, to one of pure and open dread. With all eyes on his pale face, he forced a smile.

“Of course I will, Kostyushka,” he said, and Konstantin paled. There was a scattered laugh across the party, but it was followed by more than a few whispers. Clearly, an intervention was needed.

Anastasia Romanova may not have known all the politics that were intersecting, but she could tell when a political gathering was about to boil over.

“To the happy couple!” She yelled, pitching her voice to carry as she grabbed a bottle of champagne from the bar top and handed it to Gleb to open. Her husband blessedly followed her lead and with a resounding _pop_ of the cork, the bar burst into cheers once more.

“To the happy couple!” Polina echoed, “To Margit! For tolerating all of our Kostka’s whims!”

“To Margit!” Gleb echoed, pouring Anya a glass of champagne. She yelped as it trickled down over her hands. Laughter once again reigned in the room, but as Anya hastily tried to drink her champagne, she felt Gleb’s presence disappear from her side. She turned just enough to see him hand the bottle to Polina, following Kolya Ivolgin’s blond head through a set of doors. 

* * *

It took a good ten minutes to extract herself from Margit, Konstantin, and Polina, but Anya managed to make enough excuses to get out of the conversation to follow Gleb and Kolya.

_There is something strange going on here,_ Anya thought, _And I will learn these politics if it kills me._

When she passed the double doors, she found herself not in a back room as she expected, but in a small, closet-like room with a winding spiral staircase made of iron. Unlike the main room, this one was chilled, and Anya shivered before climbing the staircase with determination. When she reached the top, she was greeted by a quiet hallway, several open doors, and the sound of voices.

“…never thought he could be so _cruel,_ ” someone gasped out, “I don’t understand it.”

Anya slipped down the hallway, the empty champagne glass dangling from her fingertips.

“Kolya, please, I can’t stand to see you like this,” came the next sentence, and the soft gentleness in the tone threw Anya so badly that it took her a moment to realize that was her husband speaking. She stopped at the doorway furthest down the hall, listening.

“I _loved_ him,” Kolya choked out, and it struck Anya that he was probably crying. “I loved him, I wrote to him from the front, I wrote to him on the backs of maps and postcards from Poland and I wrote to him, telling him how much I adored him when he was—he was— he was _fucking_ that _woman!”_

“You don’t know that,” Gleb said calmly, “Kolya, you have no idea whether that was the case. He wrote you back for so _long_ , Kolya—”

“I should have known better,” Kolya gasped, “He was fucking _me_ when Vera Vasilievna wore his ring, and—“

“Shush,” Gleb said, his tone the firm but not unkind one that he used when Anya was taking too long in the bathroom and he wanted to let her know that they would be late for breakfast. 

“It is a cruel thing he asked you to do,” Gleb continued, “But you said yes. You called him Kostyushka, which I could slap you upside the head for—“

At that, Kolya let out a wet laugh.

“—But you said yes, in front of that whole damn crowd, so now you’re his best man,” Gleb said, firm but gentle, “And unfortunately, I won’t be there for the spring to help you deal with the consequences.”

“You have to tour with Her Imperial Highness Vaganova, though,” Kolya said sadly, giving an undignified sniff, “That might be worse for you.”

“Don’t worry,” Gleb said gently, and there was the soft thud of fabric on fabric. “I think the worst that will happen is she’ll castrate me.”

Kolya laughed, but this time it seemed more genuine. “Have they set a date for your departure yet?”

“We leave in a week,” Gleb said, and the champagne glass slipped from Anya’s hands onto the unforgiving wood floor. 

“Who’s there?” Gleb demanded, and strode out of the room angrily only to find a rather chagrined Anya looking from the shards to his face. He sighed. 

“Nasya.”

“Oh, it’s just your wife,” Kolya said from inside the room, laughing slightly. Gleb looked into the room and back to Anya, sighing softly.

“You might as well come in,” he said after a long pause, “How long have you been out there?”

“Does your darling wife know your best friend is a homosexual?” Kolya called from inside the room. 

Gleb dropped his head into his hands. Anya pushed past him, walking into the room. Kolya Ivolgin was slumped against the wall, his blond hair disheveled, tear tracks down his red cheeks. He wiped under his nose, shaking his head before smiling at Anya.

“It’s true,” he said quietly, “I’m usually quite discreet about it, I promise. There have never been any inappropriate rumors about your husband and I, and there never will be. Gleb and I are like brothers.”

“But not you and… Konstantin?” Anya finally asked softly.

Kolya closed his eyes.

“Konstantin,” he forced out, “Was not like a brother to me, no.”

“Then I’m sorry,” Anya said, taking a step forwards and placing her hand on his shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gleb lean against the doorway, watching them.

“It’s hard,” she said quietly, “When someone you love ends up loving someone else. I’m sorry you hurt like that.”

Kolya opened his eyes to stare at Anya for a long, long moment without speaking.

“You’re a good woman, Anastasia Vaganova,” he replied, “Thank you for your sympathy.”

Anya nodded, and Gleb cautiously stepped back into the room. He made his way to Anya’s side within a matter of steps.

“Anya,” he said gently, then amended it. “Anastasia—“

“I like Anya,” she interrupted, “I’m not Anastasia here. I’m not Anastasia with you, am I? I’m Anya Vaganova now.”

Gleb looked at her for a long moment, those dark eyes burning once more.

“Anya,” he tried again, “Thank you. We can… talk later, if you’d like.”

“I’ll ask Kolya the questions I need to ask Kolya,” Anya said firmly, “And I’ll ask you what I need to ask you. Like our tour. The dates have been set?”

“I thought you knew,” Gleb said, chagrined, “I’m sorry, Anya, I thought you knew.”

He looked like a puppy. A tipsy, apologetic puppy. Anya sighed, finally mustering up a tired smile. 

“Go get Kolya a bottle of vodka,” she ordered Gleb, and Kolya laughed. 

“She outranks you,” Kolya teased gently, coughing before wiping his nose again, “Get me my vodka and let me compose myself with your wife, hm?”

Gleb laughed, shaking his head.

“Anyone but you, I’d worry about what you meant by ‘composing yourself,’” he teased, walking out, but he turned back. Kolya missed the look, fussing over his hair, but Anya caught it. Her husband stared at her like she was a puzzle; like he’d never seen her before.

He looked at her the way he did on the day they met, before they’d opened their mouths.

Anya stared back, unsure of what this look meant or how to feel about it.

Gleb nodded and turned away. His footsteps faded down the hallway, and Anya turned back to Kolya, unsure of why her stomach felt twisted into knots.

She was blissfully unaware that at the top of the stairs, her husband clutched the iron railing and let out a long sigh of pure relief before he went to get the vodka.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeyyyy, thank you all for bearing with me on this chapter!! i have somehow acquired a boyfriend on top of my workload so this chapter was a bit longer in coming because i've had to add "long walks in the park after dinner" to my list of things to do. on the plus side, i've got like, 15 new Romantic As Hell Things To Add To This Fic, so you're all still technically benefitting. 
> 
> the answer to the question implied at the beginning of this chapter is: yes, anya is getting along with gleb's friends. yes, we're calling her anya now. FINALLY. 
> 
> except konstantin. konstantin is a witty, charming kind of dick, which is the most infuriating kind of douchebag. anyways, this is where the "period typical homophobia? i don't know her" tag comes in, because i'm here for a good time, not a historically accurate time. 
> 
> thanks for reading, i love you all, see you after finals. <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like us better when we're wasted // it makes it easier to fake it...
> 
> The hangover hits. Uncomfortable conversations ensue.

The rest of the party went so well—or so poorly—that when Gleb Vaganov woke up the next morning, he was on the bed for once. His mind went through the motions of categorizing his surroundings, starting with the half-empty bottle of champagne clutched in his fist. He looked around the room he shared with Anya, trying to blink away the bleary drowsiness.

“Anya?” He rasped.

There was a moan from the chaise lounge Gleb usually occupied. After a moment, his wife sat up. Anya’s blond hair was still in its fashionable finger-waved style, but the long braid that she had tucked up under the shorter bob-like waves was undone and frizzing over her shoulder. Her pearls were still around her neck, and her dress was still on.

Gleb was certain he didn’t look much better.

“Why,” she grit out, “Did you wake me?”

“I thought you woke me,” Gleb yawned, confused, “If you didn’t wake me, who did?”

“Wow, you guys are _really_ hungover,” Dmitry said from the doorway.

“Dima,” Anya groaned, “Please, for the love of God, draw the curtains.”

Dmitry hummed loudly, practically skipping to the windows of the room in order to shroud it once more in darkness. Gleb carefully placed the champagne bottle on the nightstand and slowly laid back against the pillows, closing his eyes for a long moment.

“Dmitry,” he asked softly, “Have we missed breakfast?”

“The Tsarina assumed you two were… unwell,” Dmitry said, sounding far too amused with their situation. Gleb heard a thump of a blonde head on brocade, and a loud groan.

“Mama’s going to _kill me_ ,” she huffed, “Or rather, she’s going to be _disappointed_ in me and she’s going to be extraordinarily vindictive with Gleb.”

“Why Anya, you mean to tell me that your mother has been _nice_ to me up until this point?” Gleb drawled, his eyes still closed.

There was a long pause.

“…She’s going to be even _more_ vindictive than usual,” Anya allowed.

“Perfect,” Gleb sighed, “Just what I needed.”

“The Tsar sent me to make sure the two of you weren’t dead,” Dmitry continued blithely, “He wanted to speak to His Royal Highness specifically. So when you’re decent, Comrade Vaganov, he’d like to see you in his personal study.”

Gleb’s eyes snapped open.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He asked, not really expecting an answer from Dmitry or Anya.

“Well,” Dmitry started, and stopped.

“Could be either,” Anya allowed grumpily, “It’s not like he drank an entire bottle of vodka last night.”

“I didn’t drink an entire bottle,” Gleb began, “Or do you mean it’s not like _your father_ drank an entire bottle of vodka last night?”

Anya groaned again, louder this time.

“Just shut up, Gleb,” she scoffed, rolling over on the chaise so that she was facing Dmitry. Her friend moved through the room, straightening up the shoes she carelessly kicked off when they entered the room and carrying them by their heels to her wardrobe. Gleb sat up, yawning.

“When does the Tsar expect me?” He sighed, and Dmitry laughed.

“As soon as possible.”

Gleb looked down at his shirt. Inexplicably, the white was stained by something that looked suspiciously like red wine.

“…Great.”

As her husband bustled around the room, trying to get undressed and redressed, Anya slowly massaged her temples. Dmitry’s voice was soft and a bit of a comfort as he spoke to her husband, reading him the headlines off the morning’s issues of _Pravda_ and _Petrograd Times_. Gleb occasionally asked questions. Through her hangover, Anya wondered at the fact that Gleb seemed to actually take his position as Royal Highness seriously.

She remembered Polina’s words at her wedding: _Nikolai is nice, but I suppose you’ll find out why he’ll make a terrible husband at some point._ Clearly, that was Polina’s veiled reference to Kolya’s homosexuality, which, Anya supposed, would make him a terrible husband to a woman. Yet Kolya would have done much of the same things Gleb had done, had he been chosen for her as a spouse. She had a shining, blurry memory of the young man from the night before, laughing and leaning his fair head on Gleb’s shoulder. Gleb had ruffled his hair, smiling down at him, and leaned forwards to tell Anya something she now couldn’t remember with a conspiratorial grin.

Anya paused, thinking of his smile as the sound of the running water from the bathroom rushed through her ears.

“And you, Princess?” Dmitry asked, a hint of humor in his voice, “Shall I bring you some coffee once your husband leaves?”

Anya forcibly shoved the memory of Gleb’s laughter away.

“Dima, if you don’t, I shall be forced to… I don’t know, behead you or something,” she groaned.

“Beheadings, beheadings,” Dmitry scoffed, “You must really be hungover. I thought we were past that in our friendship.”

At that, Dmitry paused, his good humor seeming to leave him.

“If we’re still—“

It was at that moment that Gleb walked out of the bathroom, looking freshly shaved and grimly determined. Dmitry sighed, walking to fix his tie for him, and Gleb softened slightly, his mouth relaxing into a small, reluctant smile.

“Thank you, Dmitry,” he said quietly, “I suppose I’m off to see the Tsar. Anya…”

Gleb looked down at his wife, taking in the frizzing braid and last night’s pearls and makeup smudged across her face. He softened, reaching out and unlooping the pearls from around her neck. Anya, in a daze, let him. Gleb tapped her wrist.

“ _What_ ,” Anya bit out, the hangover returning in full force.

“Open your hand,” Gleb commanded, and Anya obeyed reflexively, hating herself for it. Gleb let the string of pearls pool in her palm as best he could. The end of the necklace slid off the top of the pile and slithered into her lap. The pearls shone against the dark fabric, sitting there like a pool of moonlight.

Gleb sighed.

“Dmitry, some toast for my wife might be in order,” he said briskly, “Plain. And coffee.”

“I’ll make sure she gets both, _comrade_ ,” Dmitry said dryly, seeming rather amused by the entire situation.

“Good luck,” Gleb said, a sardonic note in his voice, before he exited the rooms they shared. Anya waited for the door to close before she stood, hooking her fingers into the pearls so they dangled off her fingertips.

“You were saying something, Dima?” She asked quietly, walking over to the jewelry box on her boudoir. The pearls were deposited inside the box with care as Dmitry opened the curtains a crack.

Dmitry was silent, so quiet that she could hear the rustling of the fabric and the tiny clicking clatter of the pearls.

“Dima?” Anya tried again. The quiet hurt almost as much as the noise did.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” Dmitry said, leaving the room.

Anya stumbled into the bathroom, her head pounding. The woman in the mirror looked exhausted, her cake mascara now caked and smeared below her eyes. The chaise lounge definitely did not require the amount of pillows that Gleb usually took, but Anya was beginning to understand that her husband’s vindictive streak could rival her own, even if he didn’t display it as often.

Slowly, as though she was moving through honey, she reached for her cold cream and began to apply it to her face. The white washcloths were colored rose and black and brown in short order. By the time Dmitry returned with coffee and toast, she was wrapped in a dressing gown and brushing her hair into shining golden waves.

“Dima—“ she tried.

“Look, I understand that your marriage has changed everything in the way that the Great War changed the landscape of Northern France and Belgium, but we’ve barely spoken the way we used to, and I’m genuinely unsure whether I can be friends with a married imperial princess or whether a kitchen boy befriending a princess was just some, I don’t know, weird teenage delusion we both lived,” Dmitry said in a rush, setting the coffee serving set down on a table with a clatter. His cheeks were red and he refused to look at Anya as he poured her a cup of coffee.

“ _Dima,_ ” Anya breathed, standing up and setting her hairbrush down. She stood next to Dmitry as he sweetened her coffee, ready to tell him she could do it herself but not able to find the words.

“I’ll be fine, but Anya, I… I’m supposed to go on this tour with you and Gleb, as his manservant and your part-time valet,” Dmitry admit, staring into the coffee. Their watery faces swam in the pale brown liquid.

“Just say the word, and I’ll be reassigned,” he finished.

“You never used to call me Anya,” she began quietly, “Gleb only started calling me that last night. You listen to him so intently.”

Dmitry paused, taking a long moment before he poured himself a cup of coffee to match.

“There are many worse people you could have married,” Dmitry said as he set the silver coffeepot back on the tray. “It’s good to know your husband likes you enough to give you a nickname like that. Nothing like _Nasya_ , like he used to say when you hid his shoes.”

“I hate it when he calls me Nasya,” Anya muttered, “He only does it to mock me.”

“And he mocks you because you tease him,” Dmitry pointed out, “He’s responding to everything you do. Do you dislike Anya, as a name?”

“No,” Anya sighed, “It’s new. I haven’t gotten used to it. I don’t feel quite like Anya Vaganova yet. I suppose all women go through it. It’s like… I always knew I would grow up and be married and give up my last name. Being Anastasia Romanova was always going to be temporary, in a sense. But becoming Anya… that’s going to be much harder.” She wondered, briefly, how her mother did it--going not just from _of Hesse and by Rhine_ to _of all the Russias,_ but from _Alix_ to _Alexandra._

Dmitry was silent for a moment, then sighed. He finally looked at Anya, his dark eyes for once free of mischief.

“I have faith in you,” he said quietly, “I had faith in the girl who left me a letter before she left for the House of Special Purpose, and I had faith in the girl who got married for duty, and I have faith that you’re going to navigate being Anya Vaganova in a manner that impresses both the royals and the Bolsheviks.”

“Thank you,” Anya replied, swallowing hard. She took a sip of coffee, trying to collect the thoughts still swirling muddily in her head. Dmitry took a sip of his own coffee, somewhat pink in the face.

“Dima? It wasn’t a weird teenage delusion to believe we’re friends,” she admit, “I’m sorry I’ve been distant since I married Gleb. I mean… it’s been strange. And I can’t get to the roof with someone else sharing my bedroom. But I’ve always valued your counsel and your friendship, and I miss being able to spend time with you, even if you won’t help me prank Gleb.”

Dmitry cracked a smile at that, shaking his head.

“I’ll take your side if I have to choose between the two of you, but I still have to do my job, and that includes finding his shoes when you hide them,” he chided gently, “It’s different now. Whether we like it or not.”

“Will you bring some of your paint-thinner vodka on the train?” Anya tried, cracking a smile for the first time that morning, “I might need it. Stuck with my husband and someone thwarting my pranks.”

“We’ll steal away together, in a way that won’t compromise either of us,” Dmitry chuckled, though there was something in his eyes that was sad, “I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it work, if we both try.”

“I’ll try,” Anya promised.

“That’s all I ask, princess,” Dmitry said, but this time he was smiling through the nickname.

* * *

“Tell my son-in-law to come in,” Gleb heard from outside of the Tsar’s office. He swallowed hard. The valet outside the door was not nearly as friendly as Dmitry, and did not meet his eyes as he opened the door to the study.

Gleb stepped into the study just as the clock chimed ten. He licked his lips before speaking.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” He asked, clasping his hands behind his back as though he’d been summoned by his old general back in the war.

“Sit down, Gleb,” the Tsar said, carefully neutral as he gestured to a chair that sat in front of a massive, polished desk. According to Dmitry, there used to be a billiard table in the large room, but it had been removed at some point during the Revolution. There were few paintings on the walls, just one of Alexander III behind the desk. The old man looked rather intimidating. Gleb sat, carefully choosing to focus on the lamp instead.

“I hope you and Anastasia had a nice time last night?” He asked, standing up. Gleb resisted the urge to stand as well, instead clenching his hands on his knees.

“We did, sir,” Gleb replied, willing his voice to stay steady. “It was a surprise engagement party for one of my old friends. Your daughter was the toast of the party.”

“As Madame Vaganova?” The Tsar asked wryly, walking over to a massive wooden cabinet. He did not look at Gleb, focusing on retrieving something from the cabinet instead.

This was not a reassurance.

“Well,” Gleb bit out, “I suppose. They kept calling me His Royal Highness. My friends, I mean. They… Ah. I’m not entirely at ease with that sort of thing, sir.”

“Get used to it,” the Tsar said breezily, turning around with a bottle of something amber-gold in his hands, and two crystal shot glasses, “That’s what I called you in to discuss.”

Gleb’s mouth went dry. He may not have been as hungover as his wife had been when he left, but the thought of drinking again made his stomach churn. The prospect of drinking whatever was in the bottle, with it’s label written in a latin alphabet Gleb couldn’t quite parse, was more unpleasant than whatever the tsar wanted to say about his status as Anya’s husband.

“My title, or lack of such?” Gleb asked timidly, watching his father-in-law open the bottle and fill the glasses.

“Oh, you have a title,” Nicholas said grimly, “You will be accorded the title of His Royal Highness Prince Gleb Vaganov, and ostensibly, you get to govern a province, and you will be, for the time being, of a lesser rank than Na—Anastasia. Alexandra and I have considered giving you the Kazan or Perm Governorates.”

“…So what you’re telling me is that my friends were technically correct?” Gleb blinked.

“It depends,” the tsar chuckled, “What were your friends saying?”

Gleb tried to grasp his memories of the liquor-soaked evening beforehand.

“Well, my friends, above all, are obnoxious,” Gleb finally said, “So they were calling Anya—Anastasia, I mean, they called _Madame Vaganova_ and they called me _His Royal Highness,_ less to be disrespectful to her and more because they just like pissing me off, and I think—“

Gleb took a deep, steadying breath, realizing his speech was faster than usual and he was on the verge of babbling.

“I think they just assumed my future bride would share my sense of humor,” he sighed, “They didn’t take into account that it was all arranged.”

He thought back to Anya’s face when she had turned from Kolya to look at him, and the way he felt like he needed a shot of something strong when he couldn’t parse the look in her blue eyes.

“Your father and I hope you and Anastasia will grow to care for each other,” Nicholas said after a long pause, “But none of us can escape the fact that this is an arranged marriage, and thus, arrangements must be made.”

Gleb sighed wordlessly, then regretted it immediately as his father-in-law pushed a glass of the alcohol towards him. Nicholas took a sip from his own glass.

“I want you to understand something,” Nicholas said quietly, “In every other case, this would be a morganatic marriage. I would not allow any grandchildren to inherit if they were fathered by a commoner.”

Gleb shifted his gaze from the amber liquid to the Tsar’s face. “I don’t want my children penned in by this sort of life, so we’re in agreement there,” he interjected, more than a little cross.

“We are giving you a title so that it is far less of a morganatic marriage than it could be, and any children you have _could_ inherit,” Nicholas said grimly, “Because I would like to stave off my son’s assassination for as long as possible. You and Anastasia won’t have to produce children right away.”

“We’re not _planning on it_ ,” Gleb choked, thinking of Anya’s bleak expression on their wedding night as she asked him if he was finished undressing, “God, we’ve not--”

“I don’t want to know,” Nicholas said, in a tone Gleb would have classified as a groan from any other man, “The point is, this entire family is in less danger if you look like you stand a chance of inheriting the throne. So you’ll have a title by the time you leave for your grand tour.”

“...You spent a lot of time debating this one, didn’t you,” Gleb finally said.

“Have a drink, Gleb, this is the scotch my cousin George favors and it shouldn’t be wasted,” Nicholas replied wearily.  

Gleb considered this information, trying to think of which George the tsar was referring to, and finally drank.

The scotch burned on the way down. Gleb managed to restrain his nausea, and made it several hallways away before he vomited King George V of England’s favorite scotch into a potted plant.

* * *

“...Aboard this train travels the Imperial Princess and her husband the Prince of Kazan, with the widowed Countess Lily Malevskaya and Count Konstantin Ipolitov as royal minders, so to speak, and a coterie of servants…” droned the journalist for one of the White Russian newspapers. Anya did her best to look interested, or at least not bored out of her mind.

Her husband stood off to the side, his own interview with a journalist from Pravda having dissolved into quiet chuckles. Anya frowned, more than a little miffed that none of her interviews were half as fun. Dmitry was already aboard the train, and her siblings had already said their goodbyes.

“Just try to be kind to each other, won’t you, Nasya?” Maria had entreated, her blue eyes wide as saucers, “I don’t want you to get cabin fever and stab him or something.”

“If he touches you, use this,” Alexei said, his voice cracking as he handed Anya a polished, gold-inscribed dagger.

“Lyosha, I can’t stab my husband,” Anya laughed, but felt a distinct pang of sadness when she realized she conceivably would miss the start of Alexei’s undoubtedly awkward transition from boy to young man.

A cold, wet nose on her hand startled Anya out of her thoughts, and she yelped, stumbling backwards before recognizing the soft white head of Boyar the borzoi. At the other end of the leash stood a cackling Evgenia Kostova, whose pale, clouded eyes were crinkled with amusement.

“I do hope Boyar didn’t scare you too badly, your Imperial Highness” Evgenia chuckled, “Or is it just Madam Vaganova now?”

“It’s--just Anya, to you,” Anya said haltingly, licking her lips. Boyar sat obediently at her feet, a calm presence in the chaos of the train station.

“You must call me Baba, then, like Gleb’ka does,” Evgenia laughed, reaching down to pet Boyar’s head, “I haven’t had such a young granddaughter to spoil in quite some time. It’s a shame Miss Polina lives in Moscow these days.”

“Polina?” Anya asked, startled, “You mean Polina Arkadievna?”

“Polina Arkadievna Varankina, yes,” Evgenia hummed, “The Vaganovs damn near adopted her in all ways except legally after her mother died. Her father’d been dead years by then. The 1905 Revolts.”

Anya shivered, wondering if Polina would have ever brought it up, or whether she had ever resented the Romanovs for the death of her father.

“No matter,” Evgenia continued, “I simply wanted to wish you a safe and happy journey. The safety, actually, can be compromised in my personal opinion, as long as the journey is an adventure!”

“What?!” Anya nearly squawked.

Evgenia clapped her hand on Anya’s shoulder, beaming as she stared unseeing into the distance.

“Just think, dear girl,” she beamed, “Huddling for warmth with a handsome young man in a sleigh, the wind blowing, frostbite inevitable unless you two get further under the blankets…”

“I’m married to your great-grandson!” Anya protested, “You shouldn’t--”

“I never said it had to be Gleb,” Evgenia winked. Anya stared at her in disbelief, until--

“You’re joking.”

“Maybe.”

Anya groaned. Evgenia laughed, easily grabbing Anya’s arm and nudging Boyar into motion. The borzoi stretched, shook himself out, and began leading Anya towards Gleb.

“Come along, my boy,” she called, “They’re about to send you off.”

Gleb, across the platform, snapped to attention. His smile faded from his face, but he didn’t look necessarily _unhappy_ as he offered Anya his arm when Evgenia let go.

“It’s time, then?” he asked, and when Evgenia nodded, he leaned forward to kiss his grandmother on her wrinkled temple. “I’ll write to you, Baba. You’ll just have to make Mama or Papa read it to you, alright?”

“Of course,” Evgenia said, patting Gleb’s cheek unerringly, “Be good.”

Like a chastened schoolboy, Gleb rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again. “I will, Baba. I love you.”

Evgenia made a sharp gesture, and Gleb turned away, taking a deep breath.

When Anya looked back, there were tears rolling down the older woman’s face.

“Don’t,” Gleb murmured, “Anya…”

“She’s crying,” Anya whispered. She could handle her mother’s brisk words of wisdom, her sisters’ presents and gentle encouragements, Alexei’s dagger and her father’s hugs, but Evgenia Kostova, weeping? It was a thing that never should have been, and something not even an Imperial Princess could bear.

“We said longer goodbyes earlier,” Gleb said haltingly, “I made her promise she’d be alive when I came home from this.”

 _She can’t promise that_ , Anya thought, and then immediately followed that thought with, _Gleb **knows** she can’t promise that. _

“...She’s a tough old bat,” Anya said firmly, “She will be.”

Gleb smiled faintly. He reached out and tucked his fingers under her chin, tilting it up. His dark eyes were glassier than Anya normally saw them as, and they stared at each other for a long moment as they composed themselves.

“Alright. Ready to face the vultures?”

Anya looked dispassionately at the train, at the reporters, at her father’s strained face and the cheerful Party officials. She saw the microphones and cameras and the caboose of the train decked in bridal white.

“As ready I’ll ever be, I suppose,” she said, and stepped forwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real life got in the way of this chapter big-time—we had a death in my family, and my boyfriend dumped me, and all that combined with my graduate school coursework meant i had no time and was in no mood to write cheerful romcoms.
> 
> i do hope to be back on regularish updates from this point forwards, though! thanks for bearing with me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling for the person you married isn't nearly the same as "settling down," or, Anya and Gleb Begin the Road Trip From Hell.

Anya and Gleb didn’t get to see their quarters on the royal train for a good hour. 

“It’s freezing,” Gleb said, one arm around Anya’s waist as they waved to the crowds assembled by the train tracks, “When do we get to go in and have a drink to warm up?”

Anya kept beaming at the crowd, leaning over the railing of the observation car, with all its white drapes and silver bells. 

“We don’t go in,” Anya said, glancing quickly at Gleb before turning back and beaming at the crowds. Her coat was a dark navy, with silvery fox fur at the collar. Gleb wrapped his arm around her waist as the train jostled and she stumbled a bit against the railing. She gave him a dark look, but didn’t move away, which Gleb took to mean that she appreciated the stability and warmth but wouldn’t actually admit it.

“We don’t go in,” she continued, as Gleb leaned down and listened in. She kept smiling and waving at the crowd, her black leather gloves easily visible against the snow.

“We stay out here until the crowds have dissipated,” she said, barely audible over the roar of the train, “Because we have warmth and light and probably cocoa to go inside and have, and they might have two cans of beans, if that. They are out here, lining the streets to support us, and we are going to stay out here and honor that if we die of frostbite!”

Her voice was raised by the end of it, those Romanov eyes flashing at him in her displeasure, but Gleb only nodded.

“They love you,” he said, and Anya shook her head, looking up at him. The crowd roared their approval.

“They love  _ us _ ,” she said, “Haven’t you heard the rumors? We’re a love match.”

Gleb considered this for a moment. It was on all the gossip pages, that Princess Anastasia had fallen in love with some soldier while they were trapped in Yekaterinburg, and they had married, like some kind of reverse Cinderella story. He’d paid it no mind, but staring out at the screaming, cheering crowds of the proletariat…

They were the proletariat, after all. These were his  _ people _ , not his subjects, and he could love them just as much as Anya did. They were  _ his _ people, and maybe he’d have been out there had it been Kolya who married Anya, waving and hoping for a glance of his friend.

“Fair point, underhanded girl,” he said, tugged Anya closer for warmth, and began to wave as well.

“Underhanded?” Anya muttered through grit teeth. She leaned into Gleb, still beaming at their people, and kept waving until finally, the crowds dispersed enough that her shivers outweighed the necessity of staying outside. 

“Yes, underhanded,” Gleb replied, turning as she broke away from his hold, “It’s not a bad thing. Just, you know, politicking.”

She blew several kisses to the people assembled, waved, and then slipped into the observation car so quickly the door banged shut before Gleb could catch it. By the time he managed to get into the observation car, Anya was already slumped on one of the leather seats, her neat little boots propped up on the seat in front of her.

“ _ Just politicking, _ ” Anya mocked, and glared at Gleb when it seemed like he would sit next to her.

Gleb instead moved to slump into a different seat, relaxing as the warmth of the car began to seep through his layers of coats. His winter coat was new, purchased by the Party to give him a look of distinction, according to Trotsky. Trotsky apparently had a fondness for overcoats. It was cut in the same way the officers wore theirs, but a green so deep it was almost black as opposed to the standard army olive.

The best thing about it, though, was that it was lined with fur in key places and it was  _ warm. _ Gleb unwrapped the scarf from his neck, sighing as he began to adjust to the new temperature. Across from him, Anya did the same, tipping her head back against the seat rest. She closed her eyes for a moment then looked over at Gleb, considering. Gleb raised his eyebrows.

“I can’t believe they’re making us travel in the winter,” she finally said.

“I guess they think Russians are immune to Russian winters, unlike Napoleon,” Gleb drawled, feeling vaguely amused. Anya let out a snort.

“The French have thin blood,” she said dismissively. Gleb paused, thinking briefly of the battlefields in Galicia, with Austrian soldiers bleeding next to Russian ones in No Man’s Land.  _ No such thing as thick or thin blood, just your life bleeding out of you _ , he thought, before shaking off the memory and swallowing hard.

“I suppose,” he replied, staring out into the snow beyond the train. The train car was quiet, save for the reassuring rumble of the train, until the door burst open with a clatter. Anya and Gleb both straightened up immediately, the peace shattered so thoroughly that for a second they shared a startled look and a moment of camaraderie to the tune of  _ what-fresh-hell-is-this. _

“I  _ told  _ you they hadn’t made it to their rooms yet!” came a strident, satisfied voice. A woman stood at the door, her so coat lavishly trimmed with furs that Gleb wondered if she was a Soviet liaison that had managed to sneak her way onto the train instead of meeting them at the first station. Few members of the nobility could now manage to afford such extravagantly stylish new things.

“Yes, Lily, you did,” came a softer, gentler voice, and Gleb’s eyes turned to the other new passenger, a tall man in a black coat that practically screamed  _ tasteful aristocrat. _ Or possibly,  _ poor aristocrat. _ His glasses fogged and he sighed, taking them off with a long-suffering expression and tucking them into his collar. 

“I am the Countess Lily Malevskaya,” the woman announced herself grandly, “And this is Count Konstantin Ipolitov. We’re here to keep an eye on you two and make sure everything goes smoothly.”

Anya looked between the pair consideringly.

“Which one of you is the Communist?” she asked. Ipolitov looked concerned, staring at Lily grimly.

“I think what my wife means is, why do we have two, ah, liaisons from the nobility and none from the Party?” Gleb tried. Anya waved her hand and rolled her eyes, conveying a bored drawl of  _ semantics, Gleb _ without actually saying anything aloud.

“Oh, I’m not the liaison from the nobility, Ipolitov is,” Lily said dismissively, “I was sent from Paris. From your grandmother, darling.”

Anya, who had been slumped boredly in her seat, sat up straight. Gleb was reminded of the way Kolya would jump up when confronted with post from Vienna back in the war. 

“Nana sent you?” she breathed. The sharp angles of Lily’s face softened as she sat down across from Anya. 

“Yes, she did,” she said gently, “She wanted to know that you were… alright.”

The countess hesitated on the last word. Gleb knew she meant, “unharmed,” or at the very least, “not visibly pregnant.” 

“I am,” Anya replied, smiling at Lily, “She worries over me. I suppose she never expected the youngest daughter to be the first to marry!”

“And to such a man,” Lily said with a wry smile. 

It wasn’t a compliment. Gleb tried not to wince.

“It’s an honor to meet you both,” Ipolitov said gently, perching on one of the seats nearby, “We’re here to discuss your itinerary and make sure your journey is running as smoothly as it can, from both the political perspective and the logistical one.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Gleb sighed, “Last I heard, we were on this particular train overnight and having breakfast in Moscow?”

“Yes, and continuing on to Nizhny Novgorod,” Lily said briskly, “Where you will have your first conference. The press will most likely know where you are dining, because we are expected to have a lovely little breakfast with certain members of the Communist party, but we will be back to Moscow for a longer engagement at the end of the tour.”

“I would suggest you get very comfortable with your quarters on this train, as they will be your new home for the next two months or so, barring when we have you stay in hotels,” Lily continued, looking like she would have much preferred the hotels to the  _ shabbiness _ that was clearly this method of transport. 

“I’ve had worse,” Gleb and Anya said together, before giving each other the same variation of disquieted, annoyed looks. 

“Like that house in Yekaterinburg,” Anya sniffed, “Terrible place. The train is the height of luxury compared to  _ that. _ Shame it’s the best your hometown has to offer, Gleb.”

“Yes, well, my  _ hometown _ was a welcome respite from the Polish front,” Gleb snapped back, wondering why Anya was suddenly so peevish, “I look forward to seeing Yekaterinburg and  _ that hovel _ across from my childhood home again.”

“You’ll all see how Yekaterinburg is doing in a week, your Imperial Highness, your Royal Highness,” Ipolitov cut in gracefully.

“Oh, please dispense with the title,” Gleb sighed, “We’ll get everything done in at least half the time if you cease with the highnesses, Count Ipolitov.”

“And if I wanted to be addressed with the respect I should be given?” Anya snapped.

“Oh, you certainly can keep the title, Your Imperial Highness  _ Madame Vaganova, _ ” Gleb replied, sitting up and leaning forwards, “What’s gotten into you, little wife?”

“ _ Little wife?!” _ Anya gasped, her pretty face turning pink. “First you call me underhanded, then this?”

“Well, you are little, and you are my wife,” Gleb laughed, even though he could barely see the humor in it. What had happened to the girl who had comforted him as Evgenia said her goodbyes?

“Your Imperial Highness, Comrade Vaganov, please,” Ipolitov said tiredly. 

“No, do go on,” Lily interrupted. She looked like she was watching a tennis match or a highly engrossing film. She also looked as though she could have used some popcorn.

“You may also dispense with the titles in private,” Anya said to Ipolitov, “Please, we did not stand upon such formalities within my home.” She offered her smile to Lily as well, scowling at Gleb when Lily and Ipolitov exchanged a look.

“If I may show you to your private car, ah, your… graces?” Ipolitov said, a manner of well-bred helplessness seeming to settle over him. He appeared exhausted by Anya and Gleb’s fight, unlike Lily who appeared disappointed that it was over.

“That would be lovely,” Gleb said, “Ah, you may call me Gleb Sergeyevich. I don’t mind.”

“Anastasia Nikolayevna will do,” Anya added, standing to re-button her coat in preparation to leave the car. Gleb sighed deeply and followed suit, unwilling to face the Russian winter even for a few minutes in a state of dishabille. Their small party was quiet and the servants stood aside respectfully, bowing and curtseying as their prince and princess passed by. 

“This is your car,” Lily finally said, leading them into the warmest car they had been in so far, “In addition to this parlor, it has a bedroom, a serviceable bathroom, a dressing room, and a private dining car for your convenience. Your valet and maid have been made aware of the situation, and will be the ones waking you up in the morning.” 

She made to say more, but Ipolitov offered his arm.

“Let’s let their highnesses settle in, yes?” he said firmly, offering Anya a small smile. 

“Oh, fine,” Lily huffed, rolling her eyes, “We’ll see you two at dinner, then.”

The train car was pleasantly quiet after Ipolitov politely dragged Lily out of the parlor and into the hallway. Anya sighed, leaning against the wall. Gleb watched her loosen her scarf and unbutton her coat, seething internally. 

Were they just not going to talk about how Lily Malevsky-Maleyevich walked in and suddenly his wife was replaced by some ice princess? Granted, Anya blew hot and cold on a regular basis, but--

“I’m guessing there won’t be a chaise lounge in the bedroom,” Anya interrupted Gleb’s internal tirade.

“I’m guessing you’ll just have to learn how to share a bed with me,” Gleb replied, “Because I am  _ not _ sleeping on the floor of a moving train.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest that,” Anya huffed, “It’s a train, which means a much smaller and much more bored staff, which means more gossip. They’d find out the second I kicked you out of bed.”

A huff was all Gleb contented himself with as he took off his coat, draping it on a coat rack by the door. He made his best attempt to ignore his wife completely, instead walking through their small suite of rooms to find the bedroom. 

To his dismay, the bed was far smaller than the one in their suite of rooms in the palace. Whereas that bed could have held himself and Anya with a comfortable distance between them, this bed didn’t even have space for a pillow barrier.

“It’s tiny, isn’t it,” came Anya’s grim voice from behind him. Gleb stepped aside, watching as her face fell when she beheld their small sleeping room. 

“We’re going to have to get used to closer quarters for the next two months,” was all he said in reply, crossing his arms.

 

* * *

 

Anya did not get much sleep that night. 

It was increasingly apparent that Gleb Vaganov could sleep almost anywhere, and would sleep like the dead if given the chance. He took the side of the bed closest to the wall and fell asleep on his back, but when Anya woke later in the night, he was curled towards her. In the strange twilight of their room, lit only by the moonlight and the glow from under their bathroom door, his face was peaceful and relaxed.

She stared at him, waiting for him to wake and realize what she was doing, but he didn’t stir. 

The rest of the night she found herself unable to rest, and by the time they reached Moscow for breakfast, she found herself blearily staring into the mirror as her new maid fussed over her dark circles.

“Would Madame like me to do anything specific with her hair?” the young woman asked in French, her large dark eyes clear and bright in the mirror. She looked well-rested. Anya yawned, disgruntled.

“If you could make me look less exhausted, that would be nice,” she drawled, hearing her husband muffle a snort from their bedroom where he was dressing with Dmitry.

“Ah, I see your husband kept you awake last night,” the maid giggled. Anya choked. From the bedroom, she could hear Dmitry asking in Russian why Gleb had suddenly turned red.

“In a manner of speaking,” Anya said grouchily. There was a very good chance that the maid, whose name was Cl é o or Clo é or Coline or Colette, was reporting back to Lily, whom she knew was reporting back to her grandmother. And Nana? 

Anya’s tired brain produced a variety of scenarios in which her beloved grandmother chewed her out for betraying her family by being friendly to her husband. Several visions of Gleb danced through her head--well, not danced, although the turn of phrase definitely inspired a mental picture of her husband dressed as Prince Siegfried in ballet shoes.

Anya shook that image off, trying to focus on the rest of the Glebs as her maid worked her hair into some sort of gentle Gibson roll. There was, of course, Drunk Gleb, a hazy, finely dressed figment that came to mind holding a bottle of champagne and resting his head on Kolya Ivolgin’s shoulder. Anya was rather fond of Drunk Gleb, because Drunk Gleb had interacted with Drunk Anya, and the pair of them had completely forgotten they had to dislike each other.

Then there was Inconvenienced Gleb, which was her favorite Gleb, who appeared on a daily basis: yelling at Anya in the mornings as she laughed when she had hidden his shirt or his shoes, huffily appearing at breakfast without a tie, looking sadly into his cup of imported jasmine tea when all he wanted was regular Krasnodar black. 

She couldn’t forget about Grimly Noble Comrade Prince, the figure who had dutifully produced an engagement ring for her, the man who had chastely kissed her at the altar, the same man who had bled on their sheets to provide archaic proof she had lost her virginity and the marriage could not be annulled. 

And then there was… Gleb. Her husband, Gleb. The man who escorted his grandmother to galas and would lean down when no one was looking to scratch Boyar behind his ears. The man who stayed out on the observation car’s balcony for almost two hours, until his cheeks were red and windburned. The man who feared losing his grandmother to death while they were away. The man who called himself a spy-catcher, who sneered at the royals, but who had somehow earned the respect of her father. The same man who read headlines out to Dmitry when his valet was performing some service.

Anya wondered about him. 

_ Underhanded girl, _ he’d called her, that and  _ little wife. _ When he was mocking her and they were debating their titles, he would call her  _ my beauty _ , the consonants rolling off his lips with perfect enunciation.

_ Kra-si-va-ya moy-ah. _

“What do you think, madame?” Clo é or Cl é o or Colette said, breaking her out of her thoughts.

Anya stared unseeing at the girl in the mirror. She still looked tired. 

“It’s lovely,” she finally said, “I look lovely.”

“You do,” Gleb’s voice came from the other side of the room, and he offered her a small smile, “But tired. Let’s get to breakfast so we can get you some coffee.”

Dmitry looked between Anya and Gleb, a small smile on his face. Anya bit her lip as Gleb helped her into her coat, and she moved through the train unresistingly on his arm. 

What to make of her husband? She still wasn’t sure.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast passed in a haze, with Gleb doing much of the talking. During a lull, he leaned over to her and quipped, “You didn’t sleep well at all, did you?”

“How was I supposed to, when you take up most of the bed?” Anya snapped, even though it was far from the truth.  _ In for a penny, in for a pound, _ she thought, and added, “And you  _ snore!” _

“I do  _ not!”  _ Gleb gasped, irked, “It’s not my fault you clearly can’t sleep on a train.”

“I would have slept much better if you’d sleep on the floor,” Anya said in a low whisper, noticing that several of the Communists they were having breakfast with were beginning to look over at them in curiosity.

“Not going to happen, for all the reasons we already discussed,” Gleb said primly, placing his hand over Anya’s own with a placid smile. Anya glared.

“Trouble in paradise already?” One of the Muscovites said wryly, a woman about the age of Alexandra Romanova or Irina Vaganova. “A shame. It’s only been a few weeks since the wedding, after all.”

Gleb and Anya stiffened at the exact same time.

“There's no trouble in paradise,” Gleb said after a moment, “My wife simply does not sleep well on trains.”

“Oh, but this is your honeymoon!” someone else called, a man with a wide grin on his face, “Is Madame Vaganova not sleeping well for  _ other reasons? _ ”

Gleb turned red. Anya stared at him, trying to categorize which Gleb this would fall into: Inconvenienced, Comrade Prince, or Husband Gleb. Her money was on Comrade Prince.

“I’ll thank you not to comment on my wife,” Gleb said stiffly, and Anya was delighted to realize that this was Husband Gleb, a creature of duty and dignity and stability. This was the man who kissed her only once, at their wedding, and still hesitated to put his arm around her when it wasn’t for public display.

“Oh, so you’re not keeping Her Imperial Highness awake at night? That’s concerning,” the first woman said, turning to Anya in concern she could see right through, “Is everything alright?”

Gleb looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. Anya could sympathize: sure, she didn’t like him, but compared to these wolves? The people smirking at them and commenting on their marriage?

“Everything is just fine,” Anya said, and with the thought in mind that her husband was probably the least of all the devils, she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Gleb’s lips parted in surprise beneath hers, and she could hear the room erupting in cheers as he kissed her in return, his mouth warm and tasting of coffee. Anya pulled back after a moment, feeling her own cheeks heat up, and turned back to the woman who seemed somehow disappointed.

“My husband and I are just fine,” she repeated, trying to force down the dawning realization that things had definitely changed and it was all her fault, “Now, could I get some more coffee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grad School Year 2 starts today for me! Have a new chapter. More Anya POV next installment, I promise.


End file.
